Re: Log, Ocean's Eleven, Seven Hills: Sam A & Cris M
The seconds didn't stop on the black, green-notched face of Cris' watch, marching, marching, marching. The truth of the wishes was drawing down upon them with the white weight of a full moon, but they had time yet. Cris couldn't think about what it might bring, as many angles as there were, and a sniper could be perched upon any of them, bead of red on his forehead. He forced his mind down to the razor of the moment, paring it down to black, the way he did at the gym or under pressure of touch. Sam stared as he came to the table and sat, and she pushed his knee with her foot. He caught the offending appendage and held it, fingers curled over the ball of her foot and needling just below in distracted massage.
"No. Tienes un aspecto estupendo," the man insisted with a perk of eyebrows, eyes on the peek of gap between lips, like a satellite snagged in orbit. His thumb pressed harder and he squeezed her foot where he propped it on his thigh.
He noticed the woman passing the way the rest of the room laid in his awareness, as background, white noise that came into painful focus when Sam looked at the forty-something woman, pearls, rubied lips, and asked for lipstick. He watched as she obliged—then moved on to staring at him, outright. Cris' smile was heat-slow, butter on a warming cast iron, like it needed to thaw under the cast of sun pouring through the windows.
"Hey." He didn't find it awkward. He knew he was a curiosity, especially here, and he was used to interruptions. Sure, he wanted to watch Sam put on the lipstick, but he didn't. The white woman fingered her pearls like she was wringing her hands, but her stare seemed to split somewhere between something like attraction and the entitled superiority these types of people seemed to be born with. She looked at him like maybe he reminded her of her pool boy she'd fooled around with before she ended up here, cocktail of antidepressants dulling gemming green eyes to wax. His gaze shifted to Sam, and he wet his bottom lip. "Friend of yours?"
The woman smiled in a cradle-curve of red and Cris looked down, like he was almost embarrassed by the attention. It was a different tenor than the cockiness he gave Sam. It was the fluster of a choirboy.