You know those stupid hats that people think are Jamaican? The ones with dreadlocks attached to them? Yeah, he bought one of those. Wore it around the apartment and sometimes cooked with it on. I remember one night when I just wanted him to take it off. He wouldn’t have it, “Baby, it’s my mojo hat.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said reaching for it, but he stood up quickly from the couch.

“Sure it does. Mojo is like confidence,” then he pulled at his suspenders connected to his pajama bottoms and turned around, “and charm.”

I laughed, “You look ridiculous.”

“Hey, haven’t you heard? Ridiculousness is the new sophisticated,” he replied raising his arms like a wrestler winning a match.

“Oh, and did Vogue tell you this Trev?”

“No Haven. It was Teen Vogue. Duh,” Trevor said sitting back down on the couch, “Vogue is for 30 year-olds. And 30 year olds could never pull this outfit off.”

“That hat I swear—”

“Looks better on you,” he said placing the thing on me. Then he leaned over and kissed me. Mojo.