La Moustache

He shaves it off and waits for Agnes to notice.

She hugs him because he’s just out of the bath

and smelling good. He waits. You screamed

the morning I shaved off my beard without telling

you—the day after my mother died. An act of

homage, I thought, giving up facial hair and all

the maturity thereof. But he’s just tinkering with

who he is. Or isn’t. Agnes is getting ready for

their visit to her Ex and his Russian wife, their

daughter, Agnes’s godchild, and even she doesn’t

notice he’s shaved it off, his naked upper lip,

its same good-natured curve and nearly plump

pucker making him such a good kisser. I used

to kiss my mother good-bye before running

downstairs to buy a newspaper or a quart of

milk or Wonder bread. I knew how to connect

myself. He’s asking the Ex about beards, while

the Ex is telling an old story about Agnes turning

off other people’s radiators when they were

vacationing in some Chalet so she and the Ex (not

yet an Ex) could get heat in their room. He sighs,

rubs his lip, nods at the umpteenth version of the

one story from the time there was no Agnes (and

he wasn’t yet writing the postcard from Hong

Kong, sans toi je ne vois rien,which should really

say sans toi je ne suis rien—I am nothing, which

of course was what I said to you the day after

my mother died). He and Agnes have left her Ex’s

apartment, make love at home where he stares

at the ceiling and feels himself slipping away. He

finds photos from Bali, Agnes next to him, his moustache

as evident as the sea. The next morning they’re gone.

At work, he waits for colleagues to say how different

he looks. Are they too busy to see his crestfallen

shuffle from computer to toilet to the café where even

their usual server notices no change—his lips as naked