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Another toothbrush story. Wished for more.

by Amapola on March 24, 2013   |  FacebooktwitterTumblr

The Toothbrush


It was nearly midnight while I was brushing my teeth when I noticed another remain of your presence. The bright pink towel I left out for you laid on the edges of the bathtub still unfolded. The traveling toothbrush I unpacked for you this morning was resting on the sink with its damped cap covering its hard, cheap bristles.


I recalled how it was to wake up with you in an unusually freezing morning in early spring. We lingered in bed and you touched me patiently until I moaned and was ready to curl up against you again. It had been a while since I had someone feel my morning dew, and you knew it.

“Natural, easy chemistry” I thought, as the foam increased inside my mouth, tickling my tongue and the inner edges of my lips. I washed away the tingly froth with lukewarm water, gargling the green freshness of Sensodyne Mint.

I cleaned my worn toothbrush under the running tap, then firmly stroke my right thumb over the bent bristles, letting tiny sparks of water disperse over the sink.


It was when I was placing my toothbrush back in the ceramic cup, that I noticed yours again. I played with the idea of keeping it next to mine, until you stayed another night.

Holding your toothbrush in my hand I wondered: when will you give me a sign that you cherish what we just shared? It had been ten hours since the last time I kissed you goodbye, and I wished to hear from you before going to bed.


I hesitated, and resisted the impulse to place our toothbrushes tête-à-tête. I pondered for a second whether I should throw both of them away or not. After all, it is time for mine to be replaced. I placed your toothbrush below the sink. It now lies next to my many other toiletries. I don’t know until when.

I looked into the mirror while drying my chin and lips with my hand towel. Leaving behind my reflection, I shut off the light and left the bathroom.


“Que sea eterno mientras dure.” I mumbled in Spanish as I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, quoting my favourite phrase from Nicaraguan poet Gioconda Belli (“let it be eternal while it lasts”).

Outside, the cold wind played with the wooden chimes in my patio and church bells announced the third midnight of spring.



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