Men are such boys, particularly husbands; they need daddy’s approval and mommy’s attention as long as they live. Unlucky the boy who outlives them as my husband did. I look at the photo he hung of his parents by the shaving mirror and see in them the themes of every marriage. His inflated chest and open-mouth smile of joy are convincing, except for the questioning eyes. She sags beside him, jowls pulled by her own gravity, tilted from propping his confidence. She can’t be frivolous until he’s reliable. I don’t like the way this makes me sound. On sunnier days I see him as boisterous, her grimace as gas. I watch my husband at the mirror dreaming, and wonder what goes through his head. Does he bounce between perceptual poles like mine, or does he look at the same face every time he shaves? Does he understand, a little bit, that I couldn’t live without him? I’m thinking of shaving my mustache, he told me. I think you might have to grow one first, I answered. When I came home with groceries, he met me in a shaving cream mustache, funny boy. We laughed; he kissed me; I had to wash my face. Later, in the car, he wasn’t so funny. The whole night out he had audited me. Something wasn’t adding up. He stopped the car and spoke three sentences, one irritated, one furious, one frenzied. He might as well have been talking about his tail. I felt the old darkness descending. What do you want me to say? I asked him. Do you want me to say you had a mustache? All right! You shaved your mustache! It’s not the words I need, he said, It’s what you know. I need you to say what you know.
Copyright © June 23, 2007 David Hodges
Very Short Novels 
7 comments
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June 24, 2007 at 5:42 am
Maia Jose
Wow!
I’m glad I read the stories one after the other without first reading the comments.
You have inspired me to work on my fiction writing in English. I write in Filipino.
I’ll definitely be back.
Thank you, Maia Jose and welcome to Very Short Novels. I think you’ve made all the right decisions.
–David
June 24, 2007 at 1:03 pm
-jeane michelle culp
Perhaps an aging husband’s plea for his wife to ‘espouse’ him in his reflective perception of himself. Whence; the razor-cutting edge of truth is too much to face, perhaps best to fog the mirror and merely lather one’s ego.
Others may not recognize you as (nom de plume)thepoetress, but thank you, jeane michelle, for accepting this additional perspective with good grace.
–David
June 24, 2007 at 1:30 pm
Marloes
For as long as I know my husband he has had a small mustache. I see the laughter in his eyes, the smile that lights up his face but not the mustache, nor the receding hairline or the baldspot on top of his head.
I hope he does the same for you, Marloes.
–David
June 24, 2007 at 2:49 pm
Miriam
With “I felt the old darkness descending,” my heart plunged with hers from the playful illusion that their life was lighthearted and normal to the shock and remembered agony of the reality that his mind existed in a different world. And now he demands a response to which there is no satisfactory answer.
You didn’t let me down! Thanks, David!
Thank you, Miriam.
–David
June 27, 2007 at 5:12 am
ndpthepoetress
Thank you David! You are grand! You bit into my ‘between the lines’ baited intellectual apple! Yes, it was aka ndpthepoetress reflection that I, -jeane michelle culp was trying to reflect in re to the mirrored topic of your Short Story. For perception is a ‘foggy’ conception; as depicted in Part One and Part Two of your magnificent My/His Mustache Story !
Thank you jeane michelle culp (ndpthepoetress). You have several reflections yourself in that mirror.
–David
June 27, 2007 at 8:09 am
wizzer
David, no comment on your story today but a real compliment – I’ve been away for a few days and during my trip my mind wandered to “I hope David has some stories awaiting my return”. You didn’t fail me – thanks.
Wow, Wizzer! Such praise (and such pressure!). Thank you very much.
–David
June 28, 2007 at 2:22 am
litlove
I love the way this presents a radically different perspective on the enigma that is such a refreshing rewrite of the his account/her account device in narrative. Where we might think you were going to solve the problem of the mustache for us, you add new and wholly unexpected layers of complexity. There are some sentences in this one I particularly admire. ‘We laughed; he kissed me; I had to wash my face’ and ‘The whole night out he had audited me. Something wasn’t adding up’. You squeeze so much about their characters and their relationships into these few words that it would take me far longer than would be polite on your site to tease it all out. Just wonderful!
Thank you, Litlove. You’re so in tune with my intentions here. The problem of the mustache is the problem of identity; it can’t be solved, only sensed and interpreted from different angles.
–David