And below that he had signed his name.
"What's this Christine?" I asked, thinking I might have misread it or he might
have misspelled it.
His lips tightened and his shoulders went up a little, as if he expected to be
laughed at or as if he were daring me to laugh at him. "Christine," he said, "is
what I always called her."
"Christine," Arnie said. "I like it. Don't you, Dennis?"
Now he was talking about naming the damned thing. It was all getting to be a
bit much.
"What do you think, Dennis, do you like it?"
"No, I said. "If you've got to name it, Arnie, why don't you name it Trouble?"
He looked hurt at that, but I was beyond caring. I went back to my car to wait
for him, wishing I had taken a different route home.