Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
She wasn't Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She wasn't Lola in slacks. She wasn't Dolly at school. She wasn't Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she wasn't always Lolita.