Re: Quicklog, Marvel: the Martin-Argüelleses
Cris was next to Elena, elbows brushing hers, as he leaned into the maw of her trunk for the too-big box. He wondered if it was a bike. But, of course, the woman couldn't let them have one day to just celebrate Christmas. His mind was firmly on Teresa and the question, though not unexpected, out here, alone, together in a mist of their own breath, took him a moment to understand. His smile wiped away entirely. Irritation was sharp in black eyes when he glared over at his wife and her couture bows, because he couldn't believe this. He could. But he couldn't.
He didn't get why. Why couldn't they just bring in their daughter's gift, watch her open it, and let the warmth of a holiday spent together tide them over until tomorrow?
The sun was a milky cuticle behind cover of cloud, the world frozen around them, but Cris' breath was hot when he leaned in closer to Elena.
"¿En serio? You want to do this—now? It's Christmas, Elena." Two seconds alone, and he was prepared for stilted small talk, but not this. He shook his head, that impossible smile on his face, the one that came out startling white in anger, and he hefted the box out as best he could alone. Cris couldn't even look at her after that—or wouldn't look at her. He frowned, cheek against the box, knee hitching it higher until he palms could get it steady. He started to march away with the unwieldy thing. "I'm taking this in. If you want to leave, I'll tell her you got work. I'm not letting you ruin this for her."