River Poets Journal, 2012 Special Edition: The Hopeless Romantic

Walking and Talking

I should know better than to go anywhere with Trevor. I should know better, but don’t. Once again we’re at the museum, which is the only place we ever go.

“So, what do you think?” he asks.                 

“I take the Fifth.”

Trust me; it’s just easier this way. If I offer a genuine opinion, it will inevitably become an argument, and I’m not in the mood.

The thing about Trevor is he’s older than me, maybe seven, eight years – I never remember – and this somehow translates to his feeling a need to mentor me.  And despite the fact that his mid-thirties are upon him, he maintains this sensitive artsy‑fartsy-but-I’m-really-a-frat-boy-jock-at-heart air about him. This translates loosely to quoting Shakespeare while practicing his jump shot. Of course, his jump shot isn’t much considering he tops out at 5’8”, leaving us with height as the only thing we see eye-to-eye.

What probably annoys me the most about him is that he’s just obscenely average. His hair is dark brown, just plain old dark brown, common in every way imaginable.  His eyes are brown, just plain, boring, average, non-descript brown, and his nose if sort of crooked and flat. Not that its crookedness is even that noticeable, unless, of course, you look for it, and believe me, I really do look for it. I look for anything and everything that is wrong with Trevor. It’s my hobby: pointing out Trevor’s flaws. Which just feeds the fact that we argue a lot. Constantly. It's all we do. We are incapable of agreeing on anything – anything!

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