Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M Vio, the flick of his eyebrows and the shake of his head said back to Santa Barbara. He pushed the rolls of his sleeves up again, bare elbow back on the mahogany shined to a high-gloss, the other in his lap—reaching out to take his Havanero in its squat old-fashioned glass (gracias), ginger ale fizzing against the cold of ice cubes that clinked lazily as he lifted the drink to his lips. And he was thirsty too, from the drive, from the floor, from the last part of the dance, but even he had to laugh at the enjoyment Sam got out of her soda water, lava red lips flowing around thin black straw like it was heavenly manna that had been through a food processor, and her, starving and dying of thirst at the same time.
That kind of enjoyment was hard to miss, and hard not to want to look at.
He didn't say anything about her answer to his question. But when she asked hers, he sucked the rum-shine off his bottom lip, sliding the glass back on the slick bar-top. He wiped at his mouth with the rough tips of his fingers and sat back. His wedding ring glinted in some low slice of light and he looked up from it to Sam, big light eyes and that red smile, not once coy, but always some red-letter invitation—at least as he saw it. He had tried not to think about that night, what happened specifically, because it both made him feel guilty and, contradictorily, bien.
Fingers idle, he flattened his tie before taking another drink, cool, the slip of mint refreshing, replacing that curtain of kretek by force on his tongue.
"I'm still trying to deal with the superhero thing, the new world thing, yeah. Gimme a couple more days at least," he joked, looking over the rim of the glass at her. He set it down again. "How long d'it take you? Or were you—" He snapped his fingers in a spark of skin on skin and lifted his eyebrows speculatively. "—Like that?"