Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
His mamá had been a dancer, the girl whose plastic rosary swung around her neck under red, low-burning lights, string of breads long, almost endless, the little crucifix at the end eventually falling off and getting lost in some gutter along Blondell. And even if she didn't teach her children that sort of dancing, she did want them to have a healthy appreciation for music. She taught them salsa—with Cris often sitting in as his sisters cleared the furniture in the living room and practiced together, boxy '80s boombox on the thrumming beneath the soles of the boy's bare feet. Sam's laugh reminded him of then—it was happiness, the slant of sunshine into the dingy living room, across the wool, plaid sofa while Padre was at work. And, for the first time since that night at the party, he gave her an unrestrained smile, just as they were swallowed whole by the waves of dancers, her lips nearly the only pop of color on the floor. A girl whooped.
Her hair spilled like gold-spun straw down his arm, and he let his arm circle her waist, close, the other hand plucking hers from his waist and holding it as the music picked up. Her color was high and he smiled as she laughed at the steps, the twist of hips and ankle.
He held her out, arm up, to spin her in an agile pivot, and came back in close, his hand on her lower back. Her hips against his made him look at her with dark eyes, pupils wide and black as they had been that night on the chair. He hadn't been dancing—and the party didn't count—in a long time.
For a moment, he peeled away—not abruptly, but in a retreat; only to slip off his jacket and toss it onto the seat of the nearest chair. He loosened the buttons of his cuffs and shuffed them upward toward his elbows, but he left his tie where it was noosing his neck. He rejoined Sam, not missing a step in an pitch shoes. Cloves and citrus hung in her hair like smoke, a close crush of scent.