Seraphim
I suppose that I do have places, a few places, left to wear my mustache to. I have worn it almost everywhere. Before we go, I put on my fur coat inside of my house simultaneous with my putting it on. My mustache is faint and spiky. My coat is thick and dark.
Going around town tends to be sad, like walking around behind a dog who won’t go. You wear what you wear. Tonight we are going to the Fontana for pizza. There will be a TV on in there. There will be plastic chandeliers to simulate glass chandeliers. There will be simulated oil paintings on the wall to simulate the idea of things: a woman with a hat on, perhaps her skirt roughed up by the wind, her hand lifted to keep her bonnet on her head.
When the pizza comes, I put a fingertip into my plate to get a crumb stuck to it, then to lick the crumb off.
This is my gift to my children—whereas theirs to me is not to be nasty about having a mother with facial hair.
I am telling you, I never wear it anywhere near my perianal or my vaginal-lips locations. If it as much as touches my eyes, I wash them out with a solution. I promise you—you are an angel!—I keep it out of the reach of the children!