I told him about my namesakes, all of them, about the way my ex-husband said my name, always a little wrong, always beyond repair. I told him how long it had been since I had dated someone my own age, and finally, someone who wasn’t white. He kissed me on the forehead, again too tender for what we were careening toward. “Scaaaaah-chi,” he said, learning the new contours of this name, smiling with his eyes still closed. “Scaaaaaah-chi.” I pressed my fingers against his lips to feel my own name; I liked the way he said it.
