2001-05-09 || 9:36 a.m.

|| pink hearts and toothbrushes. clean tubs and toilets. ||

the bathtub is the loveliest shade of pale turquoise. i scrub it first, use to o much comet and rub out the soap stains on the bottom and sides. i move the shampoo and soap and conditioner and the bottle of facial scrub i put there once it was clear i would be spending the night there on a regular basis. i place them all on the floor. i scrub the corners, the drain, the yellow tile making up the walls. i have never scrubbed so hard, paid so much attention to detail. i scrub until the pink is gone from the grout, there are no water stains on the tile, the tub is gleaming and the faucets are shiny like mirrors. i am light-headed from the exertion and chemical fumes and concentration on the tiniest spots. i want to keep scrubbing until metal and bone are revealed, or a tiny network of wires that spark and crackle with each droplet of water escaping from the showerhead.

i move to the sink, scald my hands as i scrub the basin. i place my pink toothbrush and the white and blue one out of the way, their heads resting sweetly against each other. two displaced lovers, sleeping. i wonder if he will move my toothbrush out of sight when his mother comes to visit. my pink toothbrush: evidence that the girl stays over. (pink in a mocking way, pink in a fuck you way: there is girl smell here. she takes showers in that shower. her hair is all over the pillowcases. her underwear, also pink, is forgotten under the bed.) i try to think of what i would do, realize his toothbrush and razor are in my medicine cabinet. his toothbrush and razor and a big chunk of my heart right next to the dental floss and tylenol. i look at them when i brush my teeth. and a visit from my mother is not going to get me to move them.

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