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𓆩♡𓆪
"He's not even a beagle." Jess snorted, gesturing half-heartedly at the dog, who was biting at the ripples in the lake.
"I know." Wren nodded, scratching Copper's neck gently. "I was eight, to be fair." She added.
Jess frowned again, "What you're eight and you can't differentiate dog breeds?"
"No I'm eight, under pressure, and my brother was wearing a Snoopy jumper." Wren supplied, kicking the water at him. "Besides, dog names don't have to be deep and meaningful."
"Why were you under pressure to name a dog?" Jess asked.
"My dad handed me a puppy, grinned and said, 'here, Wren, you name him'. Not like I had time to make a list." Wren explained, playing with Copper's ears softly. It was late afternoon now, school was long closed and the dogs were getting tired. The two had been sat for about four hours, talking sparsely and working their way through his pack of cigarettes, the dogs throwing sticks and playing in the water. Wren was silent again, picturing her father's happy face, the sleepy puppy in his large, hurtful hands, her brother hovering by unhappily, fidgeting with his jumper, her mother nowhere to be seen.
"Still. Any other name."
"What would you call him?" Wren asked, tearing herself away from the memory.
"Ernest."
"Wow. Like Hemingway?"
"I'm impressed you know who that is."
"The American school system hasn't failed me yet." She exhaled, laying down on the bridge, feet still dangling over the side, Copper laying clumsily down with his head heavily on her stomach. "You like books?"
"I guess. You?"
"Not so much." Wren shrugged, playing with Copper's fur again. "Tell me about Hemingway."
"Why?"
"I don't like silence."
"Okay."
He knew nothing about the girl. Her name was it. But he had learnt so much about her in the hours they spent and he hated himself because of it. Why was he sat, gently talking about a dead novelist to the girl who'd shut her eyes a couple of minutes ago and may be asleep. He had vowed to not make any friends, to not enjoy this, to hate every minute of being stuck in a small town with his uncle but the girl next to him offered a mystery, a figure, somebody he could possibly, maybe, grow to know. Maybe.
He cursed himself as he grabbed his pen, gently scrawling his phone number on her hand, as well as the name of one of Hemingway's best works before he left her, asleep beside two damp dogs and an empty pack of cigarettes.
