Re: quicklog: cris & elena
[He did care if she vanished. He cared with every fiber of his being—if she didn't see that by now, he couldn't show her—, but those threads, drawn taut and red, burned now, consumed by a sense of what was done to him, like, maybe, if she just stopped for a second, and looked at what she'd done, she'd see and this could all go back to the way it was supposed to. But she wouldn't. Either it went back without acknowledgment of harm done, like in the bed, or it was blown apart, like now. There was no in-between, and, no, Cris wasn't good with in-between normally, but he'd take it this time, if she gave it.
But she wouldn't.
No, why would she? That was what he wanted, not her.
He knew she wasn't leaving. The sweater and its blue tail of a scarf were undisturbed from where they'd been chucked across the hall as Elena went stalking off. He didn't know what she was doing and he didn't hound her to the door.—There came the telltale slam and Cris went to peek in Teresa's room, to make sure she was still asleep. (She was. Sound. Calm.) It was only after that, that he came back downstairs to see what Elena was doing.
She banged back through the front door and the oblong, familiar shape of papers in her hand, bright against the nighttime colors painted on living room walls with the sky outside black as could be. He had never been a hard man to read, especially not when he was pissed, and the outrage came flooding back, open and bringing red to his cheeks.
He didn't look at the envelope aimed at his head. Instead, he picked it up from where it landed, hard corner to the floor. He tore it in half in an erratic, violent rending, the pen clattering out the bottom onto wood, and then he kicked open the front door again. The papers were tossed outside into the wind, wet, Bronx chill grabbing at them with icy fingers, and he slammed the stormdoor back on its spine, enough to snap the top hinge away from the jaw of the jamb. The metal frame gaped.
Any of his quiet was gone. She shook from cold, in that thin tanktop of hers, and he seethed, tendons in his neck standing out. Cris had all of two seconds of control left in him before he fucking ripped the door completely free and threw it into the yard with the shit papers, that much was evident in the way he glared.
She was going to come into their house—his house—and tell him to SIGN, pen tucked in like he couldn't even do that on his own? No. There was no way. Not a snowball's chance in hell.] GET OUT.