It's My Name

"It's reh-pell not rip-pull," he said. "A common mistake."

"Sorry." She smiled softly.

"Happens all the time," he continued. "Actually makes me wonder why no one just asks how you say a person's name before you flap out something ridiculous."

She was bored and thinking about the robin she spotted on the lawn. It was hopping through the grass.

"It's my name. Like I wouldn't know how it's pronounced."

The bird was searching, probably for food, but she wondered if it was listening to this pointless rant. She wished he would stop talking; he was such a beautiful man but she questioned his ability to think.

"Say," she cut him off, "you remember that time you took me to that restaurant?"

"Which?"

"The one on the river, downtown."

"There is a few."

"They all knew your name."

He looked up, tilting his head, his version of appearing to think she knew. "River Cassoulet?"

She smiled, not sure, not caring.

"That place is funny, not serving a single French dish. Why call it that?"

"They knew yours," she said.