Re: log; marina & russ
Little kids, Russ had discovered, ran into exhaustion like a freight train hitting a wall. There had been tears once again, when the hour ticked past three since Marina had walked out on high heels and Russ had thought briefly - longingly - of dialing the fucking cops to bring her back as he held her hiccuping, thrashing son on his knee. Nathan fought like Marina lied; easily. He swung a small fist finally, lonely, ignoring the pizza and Russ tossed him over his shoulder and let him scream himself hoarse, and drum his toes into his pectoral. Finally had come on the tiredness of not getting your own way, nor a mother's hands to pet you and tuck you in. Russ wasn't sure who was more relieved when the long lashes began to flutter closed.
The office looked like someone had gone through it for cash. There was a pizza box propped against the account books, a slice of congealing pizza testament to an unhealthy, albeit cheesy, dinner taken around midnight. A couple of the action figures, flung at the door during the epic tantrum, lay on the floor. The light was on, a low-slung lamp angled over the desk, but it was the only light source. The bike stood outside, but the tool bench had been cleared into an untidy heap wrapped in a rag.
It was cold in the office. The temperature had dropped as the early morning had taken over from late night. Russ was sprawled in the desk chair. It didn't look exactly comfortable, but his knees were spread wide, and the chair was angled back to take the breadth of his back, and Nathan was slumped back against his chest, the tears long-since dried. He lay with his cheek pillowed against Russ's shoulder, his arms flung wide and one of Russ's arms angled around him and long since gone dead to sensation. They were both asleep, deeply enough that Russ didn't wake as Marina crossed from the tarmac outside to the cement of the shop.