He'd leap from rock to rock, sure-footed and steady, like he'd been climbing mountains all his life. She, enthusiastic but clumsy, would follow, her face flushed with excitement and the afternoon heat. She would link her arms with his, like so, so that that he could pull her up. He could climb trees with the agility of mowgli. His steamlined physique bestowed a lifting buoyancy of body and spirit, and he moved lightly. She stumbled, sometimes on all fours, sticking her tongue out unconsciously during the steep parts. Sometimes he'd crack a joke or two, and they'd break into peals of laughter that would result in her almost falling off. His openness made her shy and she secretly admired his ease. He'd walk in and out of thorn bushes unscathed, seeming to know the earth he was treading. But she'd almost always have cuts on her soft round arms, though he made way, holding the branches away from her.
Self conscious , she asked him not to look when she was going to cross a ditch on the way. He went first to the other side and patiently waited with his back facing her. She then prepared herself to jump, only to miss, landing awkwardly and off balance. She cried out to him (don't look don't look!) but he turned around just in time to see her fall; he laughed and helped her up, petting her like she were a child, even as she grew red in the face and dusted herself.