Quicklog, Marvel: the Martin-Argüelleses
Teresa was an early riser. In fact, she was already up, unbidden by her papá, who had been distracted by carrying some of Santa's gifts, unopened from the night before, downstairs.—They'd had their own Noche Buena—puerco, yuca con mojo, with too many leftovers, so there were some tupperware boxes stacked outside on the back porch, being kept by the snow. It was Cris' first without his hermanas, sobrinas y sobrinos, and it had been quiet, just father and daughter, with Teresita getting to choose two gifts to open before Elena came the next day, and learning the right way to crack the pig's backbone. The little apartment still smelled like pork, like beans and rice caught on the sharper scent of evergreen (though everything had been cleaned up, carpets vacuumed twice over).—It was Teresa too who ran to open the door when she heard the knocking.
In Frozen pajamas—a little suit that she could tug the hood up on to look like Olaf—and with her hair hastily brushed, she threw herself on her mamá the minute the door was out of her way. She brought her inside by the hand, chattering in rapid-fire Spanish about the firetruck she'd gotten the night before that had sirens and even a hose! Cris came in with coffee in his hand. He traded Elena the mug for the tray.
"Guess who woke up early," was all he said with a fond smile at the little girl practically humming with excitement. Teresita had managed to get her father in a Santa hat, a red, cheery thing that clashed completely with his muted purple shirt, but at least he wasn't wearing a tie. He lead the pair toward the sofa. "Teresita, get Daddy the camera, por favor."
The tree stood to the side of the TV, laden with handmade ornaments and wanton lights, clearly decorated with Teresa's directions. The presents arranged, all carefully wrapped, if without excessive imagination, beneath plastic pine boughs weren't numerous, but modest—an appropriate amount for an almost-six-year-old.
Cris sat on the sofa just as his daughter came back into the room with his phone in her hand. She climbed into his lap with it gripped tight between brown little fingers. She bounced, Olaf's nose smacking Cris in the face repeatedly.