Log, Marvel: Penny R & Cris M
It was his lunch break. No partner to speak of and not up in rotation, Cris was behind a desk most of the day, head bent against the blue-bright glare of his computer screen, pecking away at the paperwork he'd neglected recently. It was nice to get out. The air wasn't biting today and the snow slurried around black leather, trying to seep in with fingers of ice. He'd gotten there first, got a table in the back, and waited with a coke in a bubbled, plastic cup. Westway Diner on 9th was a relic, a chrome-steeled little place that had existed in city Penny and Cris had come from. He hadn't ever had their pancakes, but he figured they were as good as anything else the diner served on generic white ceramic and chipped formica tabletops.
His coat was off, folded at his side in the booth, and he had the grease-soft paper every viejo had passed around the diner earlier spread open in front of him, the sports section pinned down by the wet ring of his coke. White striped dress shirt, dark gray tie, sleeves unbuttoned and pulled up, he probably looked the same as he had five months before, when they'd last seen each other. But he wasn't one to change much. In spite of all the hell that had broken loose recently. In spite of the changes that forced themselves into his life, he was the rock that refused to succumb to the steady, time-slip of erosion of the sea, on something as stupid as principle. Maybe he looked a little more tired, but not much.—And really, when it came down to it, what was different? Teresita was off at school, Elena was far away somewhere and a thorn in his side, and here he was, reading the sports page at the back of a diner at lunchtime, waiting on Penny.
He didn't notice the strangled sound of the bell over the door. It was only Penny's voice, familiar as his wife's, Southern sweet and chattering at someone, that got him to look up.—There was a baby on his old partner's hip, and Cris smiled, an automatic thing, and he stood. He came in for a hug, one-armed, so he didn't crush the little girl in Penny's arm, and he laughed.
"Lemme get you a highchair, mama."
It was a short hop, and he was back with sticky wood, clattered down on tiles laid out like a checkerboard. He didn't slide back into his seat, though. Instead, he brought a knuckle up to the peachy softness of the baby's cheek.
"Hi, sweetheart." He let her grab onto his finger and test her grip. His smile was warm, overly fond, and Cris shook his head at Penny. "You had a kid and didn't think to tell me?" He looked back at the baby. "Y que vamos a hacer con ella? Hm? All these white girls and their secrets. It's gotta be a thing with you." It was his turn to look her over. "You look good, gringa. Motherhood suits you, huh?"