Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
"Yeah, next week," Cris agreed, looking down at her with his chin tipped as she pretended to wonder where her supplies were, just before he obediently sucked up the last of the concentrated, cold dregs of rum still distilling around the wet, green mint sprig through that borrowed black straw. He noticed the fleeting distance that erupted behind the blacks of her pupils moments earlier, like gringita was remembering something through the wax of nostalgia, the scent of someone she loved and lost caught in the faded orange cotton of a pillow case she finally fished out of the linen closet.
He shifted when her feet hit the floor softly and she sidled between the part of his thighs like a knife. He smiled sharply around the straw as he finished the drink, and slid the glass back on the bar with the mint stuck against the frozen grain of what was once an ice cube. He pulled some bills out of the mouth of his wallet and pinned them beneath the wet glass. He pushed her out of the way with the top of his foot, so he too could join her on the floor.
Cris fixed his tie with a black-eyed sideways glance. He grabbed up his suit coat and made his way toward the front door, the colorless swirl of bailarines blanched and blurred with the blare of music. He tipped his head at Santa Barbara in parting and slipped outside into the crack of sunshine as it came down, as if filtered through the calcium of a shell, brilliante. He shaded his eyes with the flat of a hand.
Keys in the door, the squeal of metal hinges stainless, and the sudden hum of an engine beneath mineral green. The coat was tossed in the back with the hat. He waited for Sam to clamber into the passenger side.
"Dancing too much for you, mami?" He grinned again without looking at her, ring heavy on the steering wheel, knowing, of course, full well it'd been him to ask for a drink. The tires ground over sand and churned pebbles, white walls sinking. "Sundays are a day of rest. Anyone ever tell you that?"