“Come on,” the Pixie insisted, “this is almost the best part.” She whisked me out to the front of the house where the guys in loose shirts and shorts were still piled against the door, and we raced across the street in a dead zone beneath a burnt out lamp like twin shadows. I followed her up the ramp of an abandoned manor-house whose disheveled sign labeled it as a former home for the physically disabled. The funding for such programs in Murderville had fallen through long ago.
The Pixie squared to a halt opposite the railing atop the ramp and swooshed her cape back the way most women flip hair off their neck. She placed her pink-gloved hands atop the rusted black bar and leaped onto it, then sprung forward onto the high fence that surrounded the property’s sides and back. She landed like a cat on all fours atop the fence and straightened up, taking a couple tottering steps sideways and using the branches of an overhanging tree for balance. Her feathers bent against them in a most amusing way as she looked back at me expectantly.
The hell with that. I thought. I kicked one long leg up and over the railing and stepped over it with a wide wave of the other leg. I bent my knees and arched my back as if preparing for the leap, and then just hopped down the ground and walked to the base of the fence where I could see up the Pixie’s rainbow skirt.
“You’re no fun at all.” She announced, and then raced along the fence as quickly as I could follow on the ground in my crocs. The top of the fence was a fairly sturdy two-by-four, but even still her balance and dexterity amazed me. As we reached the backyard she jumped over my head and skipped off the back deck’s wooden railing and landed with a purple and blue flourish in the center of the big old porch.
I walked around the deck and climbed the stairs and came to rest in front of her. The tiny pink fists on her slender waist could not have been made cuter by the scowl she wore.
~
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Lover Fighter Writer 