Pet names.

I went to high school with a girl named Anna who was incredibly beautiful. I always thought that she looked like a model. Long, straight hair that didn't stick up or frizz and was the exact color of honey. An aquiline nose and Cupid's bow lips. Tall and thin. There were many times when I wished that I was Anna. I didn't know her well, but I liked her because once, when she passed me in the hall, she said, "Hi, Autumn." A little thing, but I liked that she used my name. I go days without referencing anyone by their given name. And in New Orleans, use of generic pet names like "baby" or "sugar" make learning names superfluous. Which is nice if you're forgetful. But it can also make a person wonder why we even have names if no one uses them.

Boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands, and wives have pet names, too. A lot of people fall back on "baby" again. I'm not partial to it. I'm not a baby, and I don't like to be called one. There's a drawl to it that I find irritating. It's a simpering sort of pet name.

Bryan, my ex, called me "toots," which was fine given the nature of the relationship. It suited him. More bonhomie than boudoir. Not romantic, but not entirely without a certain quaint charm. I definitely prefer it to "baby."

"Sugar" falls right in step with "baby." I'd expect the person who calls me "sugar" to smack grape Bubble Yum as well.

I like "sweetheart." It's old-fashioned, but it suggests what a term of endearment should express. Fondness. Not many people use the term, and I would imagine from most modern mouths it would sound strained and anachronistic. But I'm sure someone out there could pull it off. And it would immediately call to mind an old black and white film, Cary Grant wooing a lady half-reclined on a chaise lounge hidden by large potted palms. Or a Victorian era heart decoupage, pale pink with scalloped edges. That sort of thing.

I think that it's interesting that we rename the people that we love. And I wonder why we do it.

In more superstitious times, mothers calling their children in the early evening would use pet names because they deemed using a child's "Christian name" too dangerous. If the fairies or the trolls or the gnomes knew a child's true name, they held a certain power of him.

A name, random as it may be, ill-suited to the wearer at times, cacaphonous or ridiculous, is still a powerful talisman. I can think of names right now that make me smile because they belong to people that I care about. The name calls up an image of the face, the voice, the laughter. The name is the little tab in my brain that, when pulled, reveals my own personal, miniaturized version of the person to whom it belongs.

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," Romeo said. But I wonder what the haphazard scrambling of letters that resulted in the otherwise meaningless word "Juliet" did to his heart.