It hurt knowing people noticed my mustache before they noticed me.
My late husband, Walter, never complained.
Strangers sometimes stared.
He kissed me good morning whether I’d shaved or not.
Once, when I refused to attend a wedding because my upper lip looked particularly dark, he brought me my coat.
“Holly, the bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody’s hiring you to model lipstick.”
He kissed me good morning.
I went, though I still checked the mirror six times.
Walter died nine years ago.
Afterward, I stopped thinking about romance.
I could manage loneliness.
I still checked the mirror.
What I couldn’t bear was the thought of another man studying my face and deciding whether I was acceptable.
Then my granddaughter signed me up for a dating app.
“Grandma, you deserve company.”
My granddaughter signed me up for a dating app.
She laughed and uploaded my photograph.
Three days later, Arthur appeared.
