“It used to be a lake,” she prodded the patch of ice with the toe of her boot, cracking the glassy surface.
He bent to wipe some dirt from the shards. “Nah. Maybe a stream. A tiny one at that.”
“Look,” she pointed down the path. “It goes on for, like, miles.”
“It wasn’t a lake,” he rolled his eyes. “Too much overgrowth on either side. Too thin.”
She looked at the sky, blowing out a puff of icy breath. “It’s what my grandma says. A lake.”
He reached inside his coat pocket, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“She says my grandpa died fishing. And lots of other people drowned here. It’s like a frosted graveyard this time of year.”
“Huh,” he lit a cigarette and sat on a nearby rock. “Well…not sure what to say, actually. Um, sorry.” He peeked around her at the sunset. “Nice place to die. I mean… Nice view for, you know, the ones…”
She crouched next to him, tracing her fingers on his leg, staring at his lap.
“Get up,” she grabbed his jeans, pushing him away. “That’s not a rock.”
This is my first attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent – Join in the fun