One morning, while the sky still wore
The shade of spoons left in a drawer,
Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen —
Noticed something odd. Obscene,
In fact.

Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed
With a dimple, modestly expressed —
Was bare.
A flat and dimple-less expanse
Where once her gaze would often glance.

“Where’s your dimple, love?” she said,
Cradling oats and coffee-bread.
He frowned — moustache beneath his nose —
As though the answer might disclose
Itself through grooming.

“Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply,
With sleepy brow and wary eye.
As if he didn’t know full well
The very place her kisses fell.

It used to sit — just here — she swore,
A quiet dent she once adored.
Where sunshine danced and secrets slept,
And once — she swears — a tear had wept.

Now gone.

Just bristles. Trimmed with care,
Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.”
The dimple lost. And with it, doubt —
Was this the same man, inside out?

She watched him more in days that passed.
The dimple gone, her questions vast.
His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still —
But dimples rarely leave at will.

And then, one morning, just like that,
It reappeared — both shy and flat.
He smiled, a little off, but true —
The dimple twitched, and there it grew.

“Where’ve you been?” she half accused.
But dimples don’t explain their moods.
It only deepened — small, polite —
As if to say, “He slept all right.”

Since then she checks. Each morning, neat:
Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete.
And if it's gone — she keeps in mind:
Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied.

But all was well... until that day
She caught her own reflection’s sway —
And found, beneath her sleeping frown,
A moustache growing. Soft and brown.