I clocked it before I clocked him properly. Blue. Cheap. Still in the packet, sat on my sink like it had always lived there. I was holding my own toothbrush in one hand and last night’s eyeliner in the other and I just stared at it. That little rectangle of plastic. That was the moment. Not the sex. Not the cab. Not him making coffee like he knew where the mugs were. The toothbrush.
That is when I knew he had decided this was more than afters. I hadn’t. I let him stay anyway because the light in my room at eight in the morning is flattering and I am, unfortunately, weak.
How we even got here
Saturday was meant to be a two-drink situation. Mia had a friend’s birthday in a basement in Dalston that she swore would be “dead by one.” It was not dead by one. It was the sort of night where you keep saying you are leaving and then someone buys another round and your coat stays on the chair like a hostage.
He was not the first person I spoke to. He was the third. That matters to me, I don’t know why. First one was someone’s cousin. Second one worked in media and told me so twice. This one just stood there with a pint and asked if I was cold, which I was, because I had dressed for the photo not the weather. Classic me.
We talked about nothing useful. Music. The fact the toilets had a queue out the door. Whether the birthday girl actually liked any of us. He made me laugh once, properly, the kind that ruins your lipstick. I remember thinking he was fit enough. Not peng peng. Just good. Good is dangerous because you can talk yourself into it.
Afters was meant to be a kitchen in Hackney. Somebody’s flatmate had Pringles and a speaker that kept dying. I lasted twenty minutes. The lighting was awful. I said I was getting an Uber home. He said he was heading west anyway. I said Parsons Green. He said fine. I did not correct him when he got in the car. Sophie would call that a choice. I called it logistics.
The bit I always leave out of the story at brunch
We were quiet in the Uber. Not awkward quiet. The nice kind, where you both know what is happening and nobody needs to do a speech about it. He paid. I said thanks. I hate when they make a thing of paying, but I also hate paying for an Uber I did not plan, so. Mixed bag.
The flat was dark except the hall light Mia always leaves on because she is convinced we will get murdered otherwise. Sophie’s door was shut. Good. I did not want the tribunal before I had even taken my shoes off.
I will not do a play by play. You know how it goes. Coats on the chair. Water because I am not fifteen. Him looking at my bookshelf like it told him something about me. It doesn’t. Half of it is unread. I let him look anyway. People like to think they have worked you out.
He was good. I will give him that. Present. Did not do that annoying thing where they ask “is this okay” every twelve seconds until the mood dies. I like a man who can read a room. I also like a man who leaves before the morning gets ideas. These two preferences are currently at war.
I fell asleep on my front with makeup still on, which I never do, and that should have been my first warning. When I get sloppy with the skincare it means I have already decided something I have not admitted yet.
Eight in the morning is a liar
My room faces the back. At eight the light comes in sideways and makes everything look expensive, including me. I know this. I have taken photos in that light on purpose. I have also, more than once, used that light as an excuse to keep someone in the bed who should have been in a cab.
He was already awake. Scrolling. Bare chest, my sheet around his waist, looking at his phone like he lived here. I hated how normal it looked. I also did not move.
“Morning,” he said.
“Hi.” Very eloquent. Journalism degree doing numbers.
He asked if I wanted tea. I said coffee. He went to the kitchen in last night’s jeans and I heard him open three cupboards before he found the grounds. That sound. A stranger learning your kitchen. It should have made me sit up. It made me stay under the duvet and check my face in my phone camera. I looked all right. Of course I did. That is the whole problem with that window.
When I finally went to the bathroom, that is when I saw it. Blue. Packet still on. Sat next to my expensive face wash like it had been invited.
I actually laughed. Out loud. Then I stopped laughing because it was not funny. It was a statement. You do not bring a toothbrush to afters. You bring a toothbrush when you have already written the next three nights in your head.
I asked him about it like an idiot
I walked back in holding it. Not waving it. Just holding it, which is somehow worse.
“You packed?”
He had the decency to look a bit sheepish. Only a bit.
“Didn’t know if I’d make it home this morning. Thought I’d rather not use my finger.”
Reasonable. Practical. The most dangerous type of excuse because you cannot argue with hygiene. I put it back on the sink. I did not throw it. That is the part I keep turning over.
We had coffee in bed. He asked what I was doing later. I said I had to write. True. Also a door closing. He nodded like he understood doors. Then he kissed my shoulder and I let him, because like I said. Weak. The light. My own face in that light. The fact he smelled like my shower gel already.
We had sex again. Slower. Less of a night-out decision, more of a Sunday one. I knew while it was happening that I was going to regret the tone of it more than the act. Night-out sex I can file. Morning sex with a man who brought oral care products is a different folder.
He left at half ten. Kissed me at the door. Asked me to text him. I said I would. I meant I might.
Sophie clocked it in under a minute
She was in the kitchen in a robe, eating yoghurt like a person with a functioning frontal lobe. She looked at me. Then at the extra mug in the sink. Then back at me.
“Do I want to know.”
“Probably not.”
Mia came in from her room in socks and last night’s eyeliner and went, “Was that the tall one from the basement?” I said yes. She said he was fit. Sophie said fit is not a personality. I said neither is yoghurt at eleven on a Sunday and we left it there.
I did not mention the toothbrush until later, when Sophie went to brush her teeth and shouted my name like I had committed a crime.
“Why is there a Wakanaka in here?”
“Wakanaya. And it is not mine.”
“I know it is not yours, Chels. That is the issue.”
She stood in the doorway holding it with two fingers. I told her the truth. He brought it. She did that face she does when she is about to be kind and insulting at the same time.
“So he thinks this is a thing.”
“He can think what he likes.”
“And you let him leave it.”
Yes. I did. I could have handed it back at the door. I could have laughed and said next time, babe, like I was joking. I didn’t. I left it on the sink. Which means part of me liked the look of two toothbrushes even if the rest of me wanted him on the night bus.
Mia took it off Sophie, put it back, and said we should give it a name. I told her to shut up. She named it anyway. She is calling it Gary. I am not engaging.
What I actually think, if we are being honest
Look. I am not against someone staying. I am against the speed. One basement, one Uber, one morning, and suddenly there is kit in my bathroom. That is a pace I use for content, not for people. People need more air than that. Or I do. I keep saying I want something and then something shows up with a washbag energy and I flinch.
He texted at four. Photo of a coffee and a question mark. Cute. Trying. I left it for an hour because I am a child. Then I sent a voice note that was too long and too bright. I heard myself back and cringed. I still did not ask for the toothbrush back.
Here is the unflattering bit. I liked that he assumed. I liked that he thought I was worth the two pounds fifty. I liked seeing a second brush in the glass even while I was telling Sophie it meant nothing. I want fame and I want to be chosen and those two wants sit in the same chair and fight. A man leaving dental supplies is a small, stupid version of being chosen. I know that. I still looked at it twice before I went out.
Would I have been happier if he had left before sunrise with mint on his breath from my stuff? Yes. That version of me gets to stay in control. This version has to decide whether Gary lives in the cupboard or the bin.
Where it sits now
The toothbrush is in the second drawer, under the spare razors and a sample moisturiser I will never finish. Not on display. Not gone. That feels about right for where my head is.
We are speaking. Not every day. Enough that Sophie raised an eyebrow when my phone lit up during Sunday night telly. He asked to take me for dinner. Proper dinner, sit down, no basement, no afters. I said this week is mad. It is not that mad. I just need a minute to work out if I want a man who plans for morning or if I only want the version of Saturday that ends when the light gets honest.
Mia says I should shag him again and then decide. Sophie says I should give the brush back in a little bag like a normal person with boundaries. I am ignoring both of them and writing this instead, which is my version of a decision.
If you have ever let someone stay because the room looked good and then found their stuff in your sink, you already know the rest. You tell yourself it is just practical. You tell yourself you will deal with it tomorrow. Tomorrow you open the drawer and there it still is. Blue. Waiting. A bit smug, if a toothbrush can be smug.
I have not thrown it away. I also have not bought him a nicer one. That would be a different article. That would mean I had decided too.
For now I am leaving it where it is. And I am going out tonight. Different postcode. No bag space for anybody else’s routines. If he texts while I am in the Uber I will probably answer. I usually do. Weak, like I said. But I am taking my own toothbrush. That, at least, I have learned.