A Rose by Any Other Name

I love it when he says my name.

Even when he's saying it to make me stop doing something "dumb," or whatever else unpleasant. There's something about him saying it that makes me happy. His accent, maybe. I think also the unfamiliarity (I don't particularly love my name, it sounds foreign to me) draws my attention. But I love it.

He also calls me "Baby" and "Angel" and "Sugar Tits" and cutesy things like that - some more appropriate than others. They all have a different tone. They're covers, generic. I remember he used to have a folder named "Baby" in which he placed his ex's emails. Now it is I who carry that title.

Not to discount the endearment or feelings behind them. It is a tough slot to fill; I'm just lucky enough to be in it. I know I'm strange and have thought long and hard about things to call Ninja. My inexperience plays there - I'd never called anyone "baby" my entire life. Except, you know, a drooly one. All I associated with the term was drooly babies. Until it got that new meaning, which is thankfully quite different from "crotch-dropping."

Some couples have specific pet names which are derived from specific instances. That's cool and all.

But, the fact remains. There is something special about using my name.