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I dipped my chin. “We’re not naming our baby after a fajita ingredient.”
“I think it’s cute.”
“Only because you’re a musician, and you’ve met too many hippies in your short life.”
“Too many hippies?” he asked, looking at me like I was crazy. “Is there such a thing?”
“No food names.”
“Damn,” he said. “So Pancake is out?”
I laughed. “Pancake is out. Freaking adorable, but out.”
“We could make something up,” he said. “What’s your favorite word?”
“Vorfreude.”
He shook his head. “Too German.”
“How’d you choose the name, Otis?”
“Because of the film Milo and Otis.”
I looked at him blankly.
“You haven’t seen Milo and Otis?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Thank God we met,” he said. “What the heck did you watch as a kid?”
“The Brave Little Toaster. Over and over, every chance I got.”
He smiled at me, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re pumped we’ll have an excuse to watch kids’ movies again, aren’t you?”
“So pumped,” he said. “Not that you should need an excuse to watch kids’ movies. Most of them are better than the stuff they make for adults these days.”
“I’ll drink to that… Next Christmas.”
He laughed. “Missing your wine?”
I held up two fingers and pinched an invisible thimble of air as if to say, just a bit.
“What do you think of the name Shiraz?”
“I think you’re trying to torture me,” I said. “And I’d rather our baby didn’t grow up to be a stripper.”
“What about Brewski?” he asked, his eyes alight with amusement. “Little Brewski? Kind of catchy, don’t you think?”
“No alcohol names.”
“Both those suggestions are better than half the names in that tome your mom gave us.”
