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.
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