21
My sister’s 21 years older. She’s 37. Often jokes I’m the milkman’s son.
Nancy calls me Saint Nick, says I’m too giving. Nicknames me dummkopf when I trip.
I love her energy, when she jokes about my clothing or love of Debussy. She’s an Elvis-loving newspaperwoman.
Yet, the banter lacks that natural rhythm, that give-and-take. We didn’t grow up playing or fighting together. But Nancy says age is arbitrary.
I wonder if she feels self-consciousness. Especially when she calls me little brother, accentuating the words.
I just banter. Call her sis. Joke that she’s my secret mother.
It’s almost believable.
From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri
Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50 Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.
Please support the site by purchasing one of my books on Amazon. Check out Quitting The Grave, a murder mystery set on the Oregon Trail. Plus, don't forget my other books: They Both Loved Vonnegut, Ahab's Adventures in Wonderland, and Picasso Painted Dinosaurs.