Phoenix Maplewood Cowboys and Angels

Were he to ask, she would be the first to point out they were different. Similar. Of course, but at the end of the day. Fair was fair, both sides had equality and the like. Where balance, maybe both sides had equal shares, but they weren't both good and both bad. No there had to be a middle room, a wiggle. There was a need for things to have gray areas, between the black and white. Otherwise the world would fail. She would fail.

Amalia pressed her head start. Her legs were longer, leaner. She was a runner, it was what she had done, and truth be told. She wasn't certain he was going to follow anyway. Who would want to follow in a game of cat and mouse? Most would find it careless, juvenile, naive, and perhaps it was. Perhaps it was, but it was the only way she knew how to press the hurt that lay deep inside. To push upon it and hope it didn't bleed further. Like a bruise you knew it would hurt to touch, but you couldn't help but do so, as the pain slowly receded.

But she soon heard his breathing, his own thrumming legs. She curved between the trees and the rivers, leaving him in the dirt, and then slowing up so that he could try and attempt to catch. Her green eyes burned and tears flew, but it was okay, because it would be over. The tears would dry. They always did. She moved the curve of her spine, and the muscles of her legs. It was up to him if he could catch her.