You’d dreamed of a two-named girl, or maybe even three, and over-looking this lacking was difficult as ignoring cross-eyes, hairlines, orthopedic shoes but, at least, those you could understand.
I text that, “It’s not a choice exactly,” and you say you’re confused but you say you’re confused mid-point any argument I swear just to rile and I reply, “One name,” and that sets then starts you.
“You’re not a fucking mononymous celebrity. Don’t sell records on it. Never wrote a thing that warranted the marketing possibilities of it. Your name’s too common and your face, not photographable, and your weight, probably an issue.”
I thought it’d work because so many men are intent on their name evapourating yours. Someone once broke up with me because I said I’d never take theirs, and that was unromantic, apparently. But I’m the most hopeful of everyone, except Mary Magdalene.