Sitting In the Lobby To Read

His moustache was long and black, silky at the ends, shiny almost, slick with gel to keep the ends turned up in a smile, even when his lips didn't match. They look like shoestring ends, she thought, all perfectly pulled together on either size of a bulbous nose. She never asked his name, just watched as he strode with purpose through the lobby of the hotel she liked to sit in, reading. His hair was short, salt and pepper, some would say, but she didn't use spices, so she wasn't sure. Not white like snow, not black like tar, but in between, like a new snowfall driven over by dirty cars. She stared, just a little too long and he turned his head and smiled, wide gappy yellowing teeth screamed at her from underneath the black stache. She turned to her book and read.