He was happy.
She could tell by the smile that played somewhere beneath his large moustache, like an errant child hiding in the bushes afraid to show himself.
His moustache was of varying shades, all grey, and as wild as an overgrown bristle brush. She couldn’t take her eyes off them. The dense hair wiggled as he spoke, but never could you once get a view of his lips or his teeth. She wondered if he ever accidentally chomped on his stache or if he had to constantly part it while eating?
He gestured toward her untouched coffee cup, while he quietly sipped his own, leaving his moustache dripping like a Terrier out of water.
Oh my, my…, she stared, mesmerised.
He spoke about his forthcoming project at work, how his boss was a mean old bull and his impending trip to Switzerland.
But the entire time she stayed lost in a hypnotic daydream wondering how he managed to keep crumbs of scrambled egg out of the mush or kiss his girlfriend.
She wondered why he never had it trimmed. Perhaps the idea of a trimmed shape of his old whiskers seemed to him as laughable or even perverse, or he hated the chore.
Maybe she should gift him a set of moustache wax and comb. She had seen one at Maxie’s last week
The tiny tin box had read ‘Humphrey’s – Moustache Trainer.’
Hmm… trainer. Now there’s a word that should go down well with his persona.
She giggled suddenly at the thought that to get him to train his mustache, she must use a certain word to coach his subconscious mind in a certain direction.
‘Train’ is the word of the day…