A guy with a moustache

I know a guy with a moustache.

He's 5'10" but seems taller. He's nearing his mid-fifties, but doesn't have a gray hair on his head. The blue in his eyes has faded over the years, but the clearness and kindness remain. Pink cheeks make him look youthful. Sometimes he says, "I'm not a white male, I'm a peach male." He used to have a beard, but when I was four, I helped him shave it over the bathroom sink.

A bachelor, he loves his 52" television and afternoon scotch on the rocks. If he's not stretched out on the living room watching the NBC Nightly News, you can find him on the patio, where he's put his feet up on the table. He likes to listen to the pool. Sometimes, he convinces us to eat dinner out there. "It's too cold," I complain, even though it's never that cold because it's Florida.

He has a lot of love in his heart but the women have come and gone. If he's lonely, ever, he doesn't show it. Sipping his scotch on the rocks, he smiles from his spot on the couch. His pink cheeks brighten and he says, "All I can wish is for my children to be healthy." I want to be as optimistic and content as him, someday. I hope he ends up with a nice woman. When your parents are divorced and still single, sometimes you wonder why they don't just get back together. Sure, it would be hellfire on earth but at least they'd have some company, have someone to go to movies with. You wouldn't have to worry about them feeling lonesome.

I know a guy with a moustache, and he's one of the good guys. Tonight as we feasted over calamari in the East Village, I thought about how much I like having him around. I'd like to be more like him as the days progress. I hope he knows that. I mean, he should. I wrote it in his Father's Day card.