His name was Christian, a good, strong, holy name given to him by his God- fearing mother. However, she knew him as nothing but Puppy. He wondered at times if she actually knew his real name. They would sit on his backyard swing tasting the summer air, and she would play with her Puppy as always.

"Puppy, go fetch me a glass of lemonade. I'm thirsty," she declared. Not because she really wanted something to drink, simply because she knew he would do it. He glanced at her with those quiet green eyes, as if searching her soul for an instant, then stood silently and disappeared into the dark air conditioned house. She stretched out lazily across the swing in the backyard, eying the lovely painting in the sky that would soon turn into azure dusk.
For many, this was the "American Dream" full of cookie-cutter houses with neat postage stamp yards and economical cars. For her, this was like a living breathing hell. She came from the gold plated innards of New York City where her father owned a highly respectable law practice. The "American Dream" by her standards was full of elegant dinners with waiters practically tripping over themselves to obey her every command, diamonds clutching her throat that were worth more than all the little suburban cottages on this street, and a daddy ready to slip her a crisp hundred dollar bill every time she pouted.
One little slipup and here she was stuck in the midst of a middle class life in Ohio with her pleasantly plump mother whose simpering style was the girl found disgusting. As was her mother's collection of Hummel figurines that strove to overtake the entire house. They were like a little porcelain army that fought to take over all that was pure and holy in her world. That is everything that was expensive and designer which, to her, meant worthwhile. Every time she found one in her room, she would unceremoniously crush it with her stilettos she wore with every outfit.
He returned with her glass of lemonade which he presented with a slightly ironic bow and wry smile before returning to his seat on the swing. She placed the drink on the ground without taking a sip and turned to Puppy.
"Why do you wear those horrid plaid shirts? You look like you just bounced off the hay wagon. Does your mother borrow them to milk the cows and yell for the pigs to come home?" His shirt was nothing terrible, and she knew perfectly well that his mother was a dignified woman that ran most of the groups at church. He smiled his gentle half smile.
"I like them." Puppy wasn't one to speak much. He said only what felt was needed. She said much more than either of them needed.
"Well then Puppy, if you continue to dress like that I find no way that I could ever acknowledge knowing you. I simply cannot let anyone know that I associate with some, some, bumpkin," she said crinkling her nose at the last word as if it were putrid. Puppy only smiled knowing full well that she did not currently acknowledge him beyond their sunset swings, so his shirts would change nothing.
"For God's sake Puppy, does nothing piss you off?" She said irritated. Her moods were like mercury, changing instantly. He continued to smile at her, knowing it would only aggravate her further. Everything about his quiet nature frustrated her. She liked boys who were flashy with their new BMW's and whitened teeth. Boys that could take her off on private jet trips and to operas on the weekends while she turned her head at the sight of them with other girls. It was the fact that nothing seemed to faze him that had intrigued her in the first place. She had peered at him through the wooden slats of the fence that separated their small backyards when she had first been condemned to live with her mother, staring astonished at this large boy who hung his mother's clothes on the clothesline and cooked dinner without shame. He would dust the house and care for his little brothers and sisters without a single complaint. Worse, he seemed to enjoy doing so. He never seemed upset as his father would stumble home drunkenly and yell at him, hitting him on occasion. He was so mild, a man so unlike the boys she was used to that only wanted to know her bra size and her father's income.
One day she finally managed to convince herself to vault over the wooden fence (short skirt and heels be damned). Gathering herself, she'd strutted over to the wooden swing in his backyard and sat down with flair as if she owned it. He looked at her slightly bemused, but smiled all the while. He set down the book he had been reading, Hamlet she caught out of the corner of her eye, and sat waiting. She looked at him challengingly and said with a drawl,
"Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here, Puppy?" She meant the name as an insult, as it was completely absurd considering his size; however, he didn't seem to take it as a put down, more as a compliment which shocked her. This boy did not rise to challenge her and put her down as most did, but simply seemed happy to see her.
"I figure you will tell me if want to," he answered quietly. And they sat until the stars came out, with only the sound of the swings creaking to break the silence. Silence was something new to her and she took in it fully. She'd come over the fence every sunset since, only referring to him as Puppy.