The Mustache
“You’re late, Mr. Mirabile,” Ms. Abbey said to him as he walked through the vestibule of the house-turned-office. “Yes, traffic was . . . terrible,” he fumbled with his left cuff link as he said this, as it appeared to be unfastened and slipping through the cuff.
“Didn’t you walk?”
“I had to walk through traffic,” he smiled and she looked down to her papers on the desk.
The cuff link was now secure.
“I really wish you would shave your mustache. It makes you look like a car salesman, and we sell wine.”
He made himself a seat in the chair across the desk from her by placing a stack of invoices onto the floor next to three empty coffee mugs. “I agree to an extent, Ms. Abbey, inasmuch – ” She threw the court order she was reading onto the table, almost knocking over the glass to her right.
“Can we please call each other by our first names?” Her face was red.
“Ms. Abbey, this is a business and we need to maintain decorum. A business is nothing without-“
“We’ve known each other for twenty-five years, Peter!”
“I remember something about that, yes . . . we’ve had some good times,” he smiled again.
“This is not a joke! Everything’s a joke! This problem with Winner is a joke, this problem with-“
“So you think I should get rid of my mustache?”
She glowered at him. “You’re . . . hideous.”
“What other problems do we have aside from Winner?” She gestured to another stack of papers directly in front of him. “People need to pay their bills,” he said.
“Look at them, Peter.” Terse, he thought. He picked up the first group, probably ten all together and stapled poorly. “Can you summarize this for me? I’m short three cups of coffee and a bottle of aspirin.” No laughter. “Who stapled this??”
He stroked his mustache with his left hand and began to read. “Perhaps this could be a problem.”
“He’s serious, Peter.”
“This has gotten out of hand, I agree.” He was now serious, too.
“How did he know that we . . . ?”
He continued reading the letter and began to stroke his mustache again, then remembered and pulled his hand quickly down. “I’m sure Shannon told him. We shouldn’t have trusted him with this. Hell, we knew this might become a problem.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said, pausing to sip from the glass, “but I’m angry about this.”
“I don’t blame you, but what does the mustache have to do with this?”
She smiled briefly and gestured toward the papers. “Keep reading.”
“And what kind of blackmail letter needs ten pages?”
“It’s actually eleven,” she began to smile again. “Would you please shave your mustache?”
He nodded. “I think it’s time to get out of here.”
Mr. Mirabile found himself walking to his house thirty minutes later thinking of nothing in particular but revenge. Approximately three hours later, he returned to the office by cab with two bags, a fresh haircut and a clean shave.
“Twenty-five years, Elizabeth.” He stood in the vestibule and looked into the cleaned office at her.
“Two marriages, Peter . . .”
“And they both liked my mustache.”
