The Kaiser leans toward you with that gesture of his, imposing and clumsy at the same time, as if the whole world should bow first. You, however, turn your face just slightly to the side, letting his lips hang in the air.

—“Avoiding me again?” his voice cracks with a hint of wounded pride, yet he still tries to sound firm.

Your gaze fixes, involuntarily, on that mustache of his. You’ve always criticized it in silence: too stiff, too conceited, like a personal flag he believes makes him grand. And yet, it unsettles you. You can’t help but feel that between you and him exists that invisible line made of poorly trimmed hairs and imperial vanity.

You avoid his eyes, because you know that if you look at him for too long, his weight, his authority, and his desperate need for affection could overpower you. Wilhelm breathes deeply, as though his patience is running out, and once again brings his face closer. You, with the slightest, almost imperceptible movement, refuse him again.

In your mind it feels almost cruel, but you know you cannot give him what he asks for not today, not while that image of him with his proud mustache stirs more rejection than tenderness within you.