Toothbrushes

                Sylvia dreams of toothbrushes with their handles in her favorite cup.  It bothers her immensely although she can’t quite say why.  Robert laughs at her when she tells him about her dream and how she ran to go check that her toothbrush handles were nowhere near her favorite cup right when she woke up. 

                “Must be your OCD kicking in. Or maybe it’s all Freud for you miss me.”  He smiles brilliantly at her through the webcam and gives her a tell tale wink. 

                “But Freud, that dirty dog, would have always included something-“

                “Hey sorry babe, hang on a second.”  Robert’s webcam clicks off and Slyvia hears muffled voices, signs of excited conversation.  Sylvia never thought she’d be the jealous type.  She hates those girls who keep their boyfriends on a leash, who complain about them finding celebrities attractive.  It’s all just so ridiculous, because in the end, people are only human.  Cue in lust, desires of the flesh, which mean or should mean absolutely nothing in the greater scheme of things.  Yet day by day, she’s finding it more and more difficult to not become one of them.  This terrible feeling, this terrible scrunched up feeling of nails clenching against her palm every time he so much as speaks to another girl…

                “Hey, sorry, I’m back.” 

                “Hi.”

                “So what were you saying earlier about Freud?”

                “I…I can’t remember.” 

                She hates the look he gives her next.  The all-penetrating, the all knowing look. 

                “What is it now Sylvia?”

                “So what’s her name?” 

                Robert sighs over his assurances, his series of “You’re the only girl that I’m looking at,” “You’re the one for me,” and “I love yous.”  They can’t keep going on like this, because despite his assurances, she feels less inclined to believe them each time she hears them.  It’s almost like cursing- the more they’re uttered, the less vehemence they seem to carry each time. 

                “I’m tired.”  She wants to say.  Tired of her mind conjuring up scenarios and situations that rind her heart apart.  She’s quite sure that he’s tired of assuring his clingy counterpart his loyalty and allegiance. 

                For now, though, his promises, his words, still make her feel better so they part smiling and giggling over a plethora of “I miss yous.”                                         

                At night, she dreams of toothbrush handles in her favorite cup again.  It bothers her, but she can’t say why.