"Irina? Call me 'Andy,' please."

"I think that I would rather call you 'Andrew'."

This was flattering, somehow. For everyone I knew called me "Andy"―a name comfortable as an old sneaker. There was dignity in "Andrew," and a kind of depth, complexity. Perhaps I began to fall in love with Irina Kacinzk for seeing more in me than I saw in myself at the time.

Of course, from time to time, Irina has called me "Andy." In her most affectionate moments, when she feels comfortable in my love, she even calles me "dear"―"darling."