Wax Paper
By Randirogue

Running, for life, for death, for memories--Jeeze! Am I really this cliche? Nails bite into my palms, clutching the slip in their wake. Arms and legs pump, and soles slap-slap, slap-slap the pavement. I splash through the weak puddles, which spit on my feet and shins, and with every kickback of my feet, the backs of my thighs. Each rude splatter against my skin makes me flinch like he has grabbed me.

Puddles? Where'd the puddles come from? It hasn't rained all day.

Chik-chik-chik-shhhhhhhhhhhhhh... Chik-chik-chik-shhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

A quick glance to the right. Oh, sprinklers. A quick glance behind me. Oh! He's gaining! I return forward. The end game is there, salvation from this exhilarating torment, and I stare at it. It is all that remains of the world.

Go! If I push harder, I'll reach it. Go! If I ignore the burn in my calves and my shins and my lungs, it won't really be there. Go! It's just a little further up the street. I can do this. I have to do this. I can make it. I can out run him--

Wham! I am flung forward, tripped up, and my knees cannot carry me. My hands sting as they smack the road, catching me, though not quick enough to stop my cheek from scratching pavement. Will it leave a mark? Hands on my shoulders whip me over onto my back. Hands on my wrists pin them over my head and no matter how hard I tug, yank, pull, I can't pull out of that grasp... but my nails still bite into my palms so I know I still have the slip. I bite my lip, holding myself in, just to lose all sense of self when I meet crackling, angry brown eyes.

I don't know why, but I smile. I can't smile now. This is serious and yet, I smile, even as his thumbs dig into the tendons on my wrists forcing a squelched squeal from me. I clutch tighter, spikes shooting through my fingers as my nails bite more fiercely into my palm. I bite harder on my lip, that additional pain somehow enhancing and, yet, dulling the entirety of my hurting. Tears threaten to loosen, but I blink them back. I will hold out!

And I do. Determination has won over brutality. He releases my wrists, but I react too slowly because my wrists ache and burn so much. He uses that advantage, and attacks my stomach before I'm aware of it. Jab! Swipe! Graze! Wriggle! I cannot contain my laughter anymore. His tickling has undone me, weakened all of me and I no longer feel the bite of my nails in my palm. Finally, regretfully, the slip, crumpled and sweaty, wisps away.

He dives and I scramble--my fingers stretching to grasp the slip before him--but I'm still laughing, and I'm still weak from laughing, so he snatches it and rolls away. I roll up to sit, giving in to defeat, calming my laughter and my panting breaths. I look to him, meeting crackling, triumphant brown eyes.

He reads, "I miss you," mocking the words with a baby talk lilt, and follows it with second grade kissy faces.

"Shut up!" My blush contradicts the stabbing effect I was going for.

We both enjoy the silliness for a few moments more, him chuckling and me giggling... fading into the seriousness of our true ages.

"God, I've missed you Duan," I said. It was nostalgic.

"Ugh!" He tosses the slip at me and I catch it like the precious artwork it is. "If I'd known you'd attack with the sentimentalism, I never would've chased you in the first place."

"Jerk!" The age-reduction has returned.

"Snot nose!"

"Pig face!"

"Brat!"

We laugh, and then settle down again. I smooth the slip of wax paper by holding it against my thigh and rubbing the butt of my palm over it. It is from my boyfriend--I mean, my fiance. Fiance. I so like the sound of that. He works as a chef at the Vineyard Bistro. There was an adorable splatter of tomato-basil sauce on it. It was so him.

"So, this..." He puts on a fake Italian accent to finish, "Bernardo--"

I cut him off, "Bernard." I stuck my tongue out at him. Some things never change, especially between siblings who've been away at college.

"Bernard," He corrected, then continued, "He's good enough for my baby sis?"

"Yeah," A sigh and a silly grin, "Yeah, he is."

"Good," He said, hopping to his feet. He offered me a hand up and a challenge, "Race you home."