Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
He knew she could walk, like it was some kinda abstract theory better left on the page, and him? He'd never been good at that kinda translation, book to life, theory to reality. He lived in reality so bald and stark, he had a hard time seeing anything outside it, save for the consumption of anxieties and fears that fingered at the sealed window of his brain, looking out at black, and thinking: what's the worst that could happen? Okay, that's happening. That was the only time, or onea the few, where his imagination really lived up to its potential. And as he walked, Sam in his arms, his feet were practical, solid steps on concrete, she was weight, and everything around them was real. He knew she could walk, but it'd be slower and she was sick and shaking, and he could carry her just as easy as anything. And then, once they were in the backa that cab, it didn't matter.
Sam was in his jacket, the one she said smelled like him, the one he'd had for years and years and years, some barrio brat's coveted thing, his one and only own thing. If she picked through the pockets, she could probably find cigarettes older than she was, or if not, then close. And Cris hadn't even smoked. He remembered carrying them for someone, a nit, a flasha plastic over carton in his hand and a grin at somebody, long, dark hair and long, dark fingers meshing the teetha silver zipper together in an aluminum smile.—She was a mess, and his mind wasn't trawling gutters, but she looked good, he thought, even then, in the inky leather, a contrast to soft, white face, bloodless now from tremors. And it wasn't like he wanted to fuck her. He just thought, in an inane momenta distraction, that she was guapísima, that he was glad, in so many telltale heartbeats, that she'd let him come see her—come get her, the tastea her wanting to shut him out still sour, orange-oxidation on his tongue.
But, in the cab, they were together. (The driver was on the phone, calling ahead to some place, his eyes never daring to make it to the rearview.) She tipped against him, and Cris settled the weighta damp arm around her shoulders. He pushed hair back and he searched those blue eyes, drawn up spotless and dark, a crucible containing each sin committed against the gringita in bloodshot red shocking out like beams from the sun. His expression was intense, that low-heated warmtha ...well, it could only be called love, there in his own sunspot eyes, mixed in with worry you didn't need coke to clarify against those black lashes. He was an open fucking book, and Sam mighta been too outta it to know, but she had her fingers turning his pages.—He listened to her talk, 'bout coke, seeing Meredith drinking, 'bout the stuff the redhead wanna-be martyr said, 'bout Neil, 'bout the mauve spread over her knuckles he attributed to smashing weak-wristed fist into Meredith's face—though, the injuries seemed a little too extreme for that, 'less she was beating her knuckles on bland cheekbone over and over. (And Cris knew repetitive injuries to the knuckle real good. He knew what they looked like coming away from walls, from windows, mirrors, paper towel dispensers, lockers—and he thought maybe Sam took her anger out on a wall somewhere.)
When she broke off, sewing it all together to this very moment, some ugly quilt behind her, and she looked up at him with eyes open, seeking, Cris smiled at her, small, black linea lips. He kissed her forehead by cinching his arm around her neck and pulling her in careful, then letting her go.