a month. her mother had the odd idea of actually giving her her father’s first name, trevor, an odd sort of a name for a girl, specially for a girl who never knew hide nor hair of her father. middle name augustine ray and she was just fine with going by that middle name. it seemed to suit better, less name calling didn’t hurt either.
pixie girl was indeed out of place, someone should have told her about all the dirt that seemed to be hanging around everywhere, even in the air. messy strands of hair had been clipped back as best as she could to ease some of the heat, a simple blue tank top with some sort of faded design stenciled across it, matched with white shorts, if one could call them that. at least she tried to dress for the summer sun.
"Augustine, August… Yeah. My uncle, uh…" sort of a trailed off sentence there, eyes settled on the saddle the other was holding. "He sent me for some stuff?" i guess, maybe, why was it that everything out of her mouth seemed so unsure? because the days seemed to blur together and she could barely remember where she was half the time. damn, her internal workings were way off.
an effortless smile broke across the Scouse girls face. She’s decided that her startled fawn presence was most likely a side effect of complete culture shock; she remembered her own adjustment period. She also decided it was absolutely charming. “Eya, I woz expectin’ yeh.” Tucking one hand into her back pocket, she turned to give the girl a good view of the farm behind her. “If yeh wan’ ta pull up ta th’ tack room, we can load up back t’ere. Some o’ i’s pre’y ‘eavy”.
She chanced a look back at the new comer. Everything about the way she presented herself was not prepared for a girl like this. She wore a tattered black t-short, it’s sleeves cut halfway down her sides to allow for the best circulation, and still, it clung to her skin in less-than-attractive pools at the small of her back and across her collarbones. Her jeans were of sturdy build, with heavy wear at her knees and pockets, the cuffs of which were stuffed into heavily scuffed boots beneath later upon later of dirt. Though, the way she was looking about the farm, Brudgette had a suspicion that se wouldn’t be able to differentiate her from any ot the other dirty things about.
She led the rickety truck through the gates and to the tack room, throwing the heavy doors open where a nearly stacked pile await thwm on the middle of the room. The two farms sent so much tack back and forth between them that they’d no longer be able to decipher what belonged to whom if they cared to try. This weekend, they were passing off a rather large load, and Bridgette had to doubt whether or not the little ford would be able to manage its way home. It would, as it always did, most likely manage to surprise her.
Looking back to the truck’s driver, Bridgette offered another smile. Wha’ d’yeh lo’ need all t’is fer any’ow?”