They were going to just do it–city hall on a Tuesday morning, quick, shotgun wedding style, only without the sheriff or those terrible hats–but then they started talking about what they'd actually name the thing. His only ideas were things like Huckleberry and Valentine, and for a terrifying flash of a moment, she realized that everything would be this way. He would paint their house neon just to be that house. He would buy a classic car, and every time a cupholder broke or the fender got bent they would have to send seven grand to some special guy in Idaho who only did business on Ebay. He would be the kind of parent whose kids would rather he had been their uncle, the kind of parent who had kids just to give them names– like buying a tank of hermit crabs.
And really, she was like that too. And as much she wanted to dress it up in bowties and hilariously tiny suits, she couldn't help but think that nothing, not even the best two dates she'd ever had, nothing could justify forcing another human being to go through life with a mother like her and a name like Mercutio.
They would wait a week. She would talk him down to Naomi, maybe a nice Solomon or Lane.
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