Last night I am reminded of how potent a symbol is the toothbrush. Do you remember? The first time you spent the night at his place? It was unexpected, unplanned, and in the morning you asked to use his toothbrush. For just a second, before he answered you were anxious, whatever intimacies the night before had brought, whatever intimacy you had then, in the morning light of his bedroom, what would his answer be? The yes of acceptance and acknowledgement, or the no of regret and dismissal?

Or the time you went to the CVS to replace your own toothbrush. You bought your favorite kind, in your favorite color, and got a second one as well, but a different color. A guy color, not pink. You put it in your medicine cabinet, but you did not tell him. Did not tell him of your hope, did not tell him of the tiny dream sleeping in the dark in your bathroom, did not tell him of your tender ludicrous fantasy contained in such a mundane item.

Do you remember the thrill of the invitation? When he asks you to bring your toothbrush over, or even presents you with one? That he offers to let you own a precious two square inches that formerly belonged to him. Two inches, of mostly hole, there, to hang your toothbrush. You can plant your tiny flag of ownership, its handle twinned by his, what joy in that.

Last night I came home to the vacancy left by my weekend houseguest. Tonight there would not be the simple pleasure of having a meal prepared for me, no laughing ignorance of the stacks of dishes, no conversations with feet tucked up on the couch. I went to shower, found the soap pleasantly askew in the dish, the shower head adjusted for someone much taller, and in the toothbrush holder, yes, his toothbrush. It does not mean all that one would hope for it to mean, it does not mean that at all. But the sight of it, oh the sight of it is so evocative.