If he was day, she was night.

So maybe it's fitting that they met as the sun dropped low in the sky, not quite blackness and not quite light but instead fading shades of grey.

If he was water, she was fire.

So it makes sense that they met in a bar, both chasing their broken dreams with liquor, washing them down and burning them away at the same time.

If he was a pistol, she was a knife.

The blade hung heavy on her hip, the hilt wrapped in sweat-stained leather, and the gun was hidden under his trench coat, loaded with silver bullets.

If he was thunder, she was lightning.

He was threatening and ominous and spoke in a deep voice, while she was fast and deadly and electrifying.

If he was the unwanted child, she was the orphan.

Both cast out, she because she had no one and he because he had too many, too many brothers and sister and an absent father and chaos.

If he was the law, she was crime.

He wore badges and licenses and pretended to be someone, while she slid up like a snake and slid a knife between its ribs. The outcome was the same.

If he had fallen from a better life into the rat-infested disease of humanity, she had never known anything but.

If he was an angel, she was a demon.