Re: AHS: Sam A & Cris M
She looked at him when he said yeah, and she tried to determine if he really got what she was trying to get at. But, yeah, it seemed like he did, and she let it go or whatever. It was more than she usually said to the people she knew. Usually, her conversations were about other people's big fucking problems, or about their concerns about her sanity-sobriety-fucking sads. So she let this end there, where it was good, and where it hadn't turned into any of the shit she was trying to avoid by living in this door where the world didn't give a shit about her problems.
She liked his expression when he said the woman he was remembering was someone different, and she watched his face a few seconds longer. She'd ask about her while she painted him, yeah? Try to get that expression back, and try to capture it in brush strokes and shades of brown.
But then they were home. Well, as close to home as she got these days.
She was out of the car by the time he made it to the passenger door, the detour for hat and jacket giving her enough time to lean back against the closed door of the borrowed car and toss the dregs of the clove. "Yeah. I'll tell you when," she promised, and she meant it. She had the itch to paint him now, and for her the itch for art was almost as bad as the itch for the needle.
He held his arm out, all fucking casual, and she laughed. Yeah, no, not her thing. Casual, yeah, but fucking polite hugs were so not her bag. Bare feet, and she moved forward fast, laugh on her lips and too many teeth. Arm slung around his shoulder, and the tips of her toes against the dead winter grass. She leaned into him for the hug, close and what the fuck was space? Not there, and she kissed his cheek forever.
She was laughing by the time she rocked back onto her heels, and she slipped past him with a bump of hip, fingers sliding beneath his tie and tossing it over his shoulder again.