It’s funny how certain someone can be.
She told me I shaved my mustache.
I told her I didn’t.
She said of course I did.
I told her I don’t shave.
She said “No, you shaved your mustache,” she was certain.
And I insisted I don’t grow facial hair. I don’t.
She asked if I was sure. She was certain.
I must be the one who is mistaken. Not her.
Who could know better of the facts of my face? What is it like to be so certain?
I must be a liar, I must be, that’s for certain.
And it wasn’t the first time she had fixated to this. The facts of my lip.
She told me I must shave every day. I told her I don’t.
She said “No way!” She was certain. I insisted and she asked how could that be.
My response was to say that my ways are mysterious. However she insisted I answer her question.
I told her I did answer her question. She wasn’t satisfied.
But that’s a different thing.
Is there more I could say? Certainly. But nothing she could be entitled to hear.
Certainly not but she was certain.
