The first time Arthur requested an unretouched photo, I was flattered. By the fourth request, I was suspicious.

“Another picture?” I teased over the phone.

“Please, Holly. I love seeing you as you are.”

“Arthur, you’ve already seen me three times.”

“Not nearly enough.”

At my age, such focused attention to my appearance, particularly my upper lip, was unfamiliar. A prominent mustache had developed in my twenties. For over fifty years, I’d tried to disguise it while enduring the occasional stranger’s stare. Being noticed for facial hair before anything else about me had always stung. Even when people tried to be polite, I could see the moment their gaze settled above my mouth. I had become skilled at looking away first, as if that might spare both of us an awkward exchange.

My husband Walter never made it an issue. He kissed me each morning, whether I’d shaved or not. Once I nearly skipped a wedding because the hair looked darker than usual. He handed me my coat.

“Holly, the bride invited you because she loves you. Nobody’s hiring you to model lipstick.”

I attended, although I checked my reflection six times.

Walter died nine years earlier. Without him, everyday routines felt painfully different. His uncomplicated affection was something I missed as much as his presence, and I doubted I would ever again feel so completely at ease with another person. I learned to tolerate the empty house but couldn’t face having another man inspect my features and decide I wasn’t attractive enough. Then my granddaughter created a dating profile for me.

“Grandma, you deserve company.”

She uploaded my picture with a laugh. Three days afterward, an eighty-year-old widower named Arthur contacted me. His opening question concerned whether I completed crosswords in pencil or pen.

“Pen,” I replied. “I’m old enough to live dangerously.”

“Then we’d get along,” he replied.

Our evening conversations soon became routine. Arthur remembered my roses and asked about my granddaughter’s new position. Eventually, I nervously brought up my mustache, bracing for a hurtful reaction. His reply astonished me.

“Please don’t ever shave it. I think you’re beautiful exactly as you are.”

I read the message three times and cried. Walter had always accepted me; I was realizing how long I’d refused to believe his reassurance.

Arthur arrived for our first date with my favorite lemon cookies. Whenever I caught him studying my face, my hand instinctively rose toward my upper lip.

“You don’t have to do that around me, Holly darling.”

I let my hand fall. During our second meeting, he took a photograph of me beside a rosebush. Later, he requested another makeup-free selfie, and I obliged. On our third date, he questioned where I’d lived as a child.

“Not always,” I said. “My family moved around when I was young.”

He seemed unusually interested in that answer, though I didn’t challenge him.

Several days later, he invited me to his home for dinner cooked by his housekeeper, Helen. Before ending our call, he returned to the same request.

“Would you send me one more picture?”

“Arthur, at this rate you’ll have enough photographs to open a museum!”

“Just your face, darling. No makeup.”

“Why are you so interested?”

“Because I love your natural beauty.”

I wanted to trust him, so I sent it. That night, however, it struck me that he’d never asked to see my garden or house. His interest in photographs was entirely confined to my face. I remembered how carefully he had framed me near the rosebush, and how each later request had narrowed to an image without makeup. I told myself that I was overthinking a kind man’s attention, although the doubt remained.

His home contained old bookcases and pictures of a woman I took to be his deceased wife. Arthur welcomed me with pink roses.

“For the lady who grows better ones.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

He smiled and examined my face long enough to revive my self-conscious gesture.

“Come in, Holly.”

Inside, he introduced the woman approaching with two crystal glasses.

“This is Helen,” Arthur said.

Helen took one look at me and dropped both glasses. They broke on the floor while she stood motionless, staring.

“Oh, goodness!” I exclaimed.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Holly?” she gasped.

“Yes?”

Arthur immediately moved between us.

“Helen, please take care of the glasses.”

“Arthur…”

“Now, please.”

His unexpected sternness made me uneasy. As Helen knelt to clear the shards, I bent to assist.