"What?" murmured my husband.
"My new oboe. Boy or girl? I have to pick a name."
"You're gonna name your oboe?"
"Um, ya-ah. Abby and Adam named their violins. Lots of people name their instruments." Of course, lots of people don't, either, and I suppose it takes a certain childlike spirit and freedom of disdain to be this corny, but I plead guilty.
"I think she's a girl," I continued. "My rental's a boy, though."
"How do you know?"
"I just know." He felt like a buddy, comfortable to be with in pajamas and slippers, but the new one like a galpal who would let me know if something I was wearing was crooked, unflattering, or just plain wrong. An honest companion, much less the let-little-flaws-slide-by type, like my trusty rental.
"Did you name your rental?"
"No," I answered guiltily.
"Why not?!" asked my husband, momentarily animated.
"Well, it's a rental, and..."
"You didn't give it a name because it's a rental?! Isn't that discrimination?" The civil rights advocate in him was enjoying this, I could tell.
"Well, naming means attachment, and relationship, and rentals get given back..."
"I see. Poor little oboe."
I muttered something decidedly unimaginative in reply, then thanked my husband for going to the instrument dealer's place with Kyoko, and for helping make my little dreams happen.
"It's really all your hard work," he said. "I get the fun part - being along for the ride."