your brother

We always looked like something out of a movie about mismatched brothers. I was the singer, the stage, the leather bracelets, and the mesh tank top; he was the tailored suit, tie, and perfect hairdo. When it was time to go out—a premiere, the red carpet, the flashing lights—we decided to quickly tidy ourselves up: I asked him for some hair wax, and he asked me for the thin scarf I carry everywhere.

In the elevator, in front of the mirror, he looked at me as if he were seeing someone who would no longer be his brother tomorrow. I waxed my hair, made a silly face, and tightened my belt. He adjusted his cuff and glanced at his phone, as if it were a year-long schedule. Suddenly, he grinned and, curling his lips slightly, said, "Why did I have such a brother?"