Re: Bar Log: Penny and Cris
He didn't move until she was done talking. The wood of the table was greasy with handprints and some sloppy swipe of swill'd rag and the thing smelled like some ancestral scent of Pine-Sol, and it was kinda tacky against the skin of his chin, sticking it there as Cris rested. These were the things he noticed where he was bent, thumbs still acting as props on either cheekbone.—He waited 'til she was done, then he pushed away from the booth with rough palms that didn't slide, but skidded on gummy tabletop. He reached for the glasses, all four, cinched them with fingers brought together like a spade, and he walked with some anger-fueled belligerence to the bar.
It was a little rapid. A little manic. A vacillation.
—Yeah, another round. No, not beer. No. Would you let him talk? Just two more of the whiskey, neat. Not the Wild Turkey. Yeah. Sí. SÍ. Gracias.—
And he was back. It was the last he could have, so he shoulda savored it, but he didn't. Cris sat, clinked his glass against Penny's, and downed it in one flash-burn. He traced his lips with the point of his tongue, tasting the woody sting that lingered there and on his breath, and he cleared his throat. He sat back in the booth, wide-kneed and head back against cushion, and he looked at Penny.
Yeah, his mood had soured by now (Dios, could it happen fast; it just tanked), curdled in his veins, and the smile on his lips told all that. It was black and it was prowl—not the kind that came with pupils that bloomed, but the kind that came with constriction and one knee jumping.
"Yeah. Okay. Let's do that." And he was a little like a kid acting out, words lashes. "Where do we start? Huh? You want me to tell you my lista screw ups? You don't gotta tell me I was stupid. I know. You know, I been keepin' it together okay. 'Til then—'til that, I was doin' okay by myself. And if you mean Sam—talk me outta that—nah. No way. Yeah, she's got problems. But I—" Cris snagged there with his defenses up, a sudden crop of hesitance, 'cause he'd been keeping himself from saying the words for so long, hyperaware of the length at which they'd fall short, of the ways that could be counted aloud to him of proof of the contrary. He knew the stretch of calendar. He knew what Sam thought about it. What she'd say. He knew all of it. But, he felt it. That had to mean something. Cris wanted to break his newest glass for some godforsaken reason. But he didn't. No, no. He just wanted to, his nerves winding up as he sat.—He was still defensive, raised walls and hedged voice when he leaned toward Penny to tell her, like it was some kinda threat—to her, the person who knew him better than anyone else (though maybe that was why he felt the need to say it at all. She knew how vulnerable he was. She knew his weak spots.): "I love her. I don't wanna hear you say anything bad about her. She's notta life decision or somethin' I need talked outta. Got it?"
It probably hadn't been what she meant and Cris' smile was still a little too sharp, but the words were out there now.