Outside the shadows were lengthening, but I saw no shadow of a future parting for Lila and me, now or ever, for as long as we’d live.
I kissed her then, hard and long.
When it was over, Lila rubbed her finger across her top lip.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s your mustache, Dusty. It tickles.”
I touched my upper lip with the tips of my fingers and among the fuzz felt stiff, wiry bristles—the beginnings, I fancied, of a fine dragoon mustache. A man’s mustache.
I threw back my head and laughed.
Me, I was eighteen years old that summer of 1880.
And my happiness was complete.
