Where Bay brushes her teeth. Fully relishing the act. Squeezing the tube with a carefully practiced technique for a generous, thick line of paste that balances perfectly upon the bristles. She brushes with zest and vigor; no pearly white surface left untouched, foam forming at the corners of her mouth. A swipe of the tongue added for good measure. And then she spits. Quickly swishing her mouth with a mug of tap water that had been prepared beforehand, waiting at the ready.
The view is a charming one. A small, white bathroom with inconvenient corners. A tall, honey-blond with her back to you. Cascading loose curls, tied up into a hasty bun at the top of her head. Oversized t-shirt advertising some sort of yearly jazz festival, ending at the very edge of light pink underwear and perfectly showcasing a pair of long legs. Finishing with bare feet on a butter yellow rug.
The lonesomeness that has loomed over the intricacies of Bay’s life explode in this quiet moment. That no one is here to take it in. The mundane chore of tooth brushing. The rug bought to simultaneously brighten a room and buffer the inevitable tile floor chill. Loneliness clings to every air particle.
***The names Bay and Nora are consistent favorites for characters.
