Re: In-person: Sam & Cris
[It's not dichotomy, so much as complexity—so much as opposing forces at work in a person, strengths and flaws one in the same, and Cris is too old by now to not get the gray that they're drowning in. But, the gold chain is his anchor, there 'round Sam's throat, and he holds on, to botha them, drinks that sound offa the girl's lips and his knuckles hard against her belly.—That's before he jettisons her up on the percha his knees.
He's supposed to be strong—for her. For himself. The rock meant to weather the storm. And he is, huh? He is, granite under skin and over bone. But, he's nothing but sand too, eroded to dust, and he pushes into Sam's touch, into the digga her fingers, even as she wrenches his hair in a vise-grip. And it's hard to tell what the tipping point is here—the picture, Sam aging back up, Cerise meeting the guy, Teresita being gone, alla it, something else—quién sabe—but the breach in his voice, grated by tears, maybe it is new for Sam. Cris just rubs his cheek against her chest, presses lips to the Caridad when the gringa tells him to stay.
He drops his knees and catches her on the way down, arms cradling her again to his chest.] It'll be better. If I go. [He laughs, sad.] I don't trust Stone. If this is our only shot—[He looks down at Sam, tapping fingers to jawbone to make her look up. He tries a smile for her, but it don't work entirely. His eyebrows are too close, drawing up, and he's too reluctant to go.] But I'll be back. ¿Te quedarás conmigo hasta que me duerma? [Needy. Pathetic. He don't care.] I missed you.