first-person, present-tense account of something you do regularly
I'm leaning against the sink, hips meeting the edge of the counter as my legs form a right triangle with the cabinet and the floor. I'm still blinking against the cruel fluorescence as green eyes meet their equal in the smeary glass. My gaze flits to the mirror version of my arm, the rubber-band bicep flexing just noticeably as my hand moves up and down with the hairbrush, back and forth with the toothbrush. The faded green-and-gray stripes of my thin cotton shirt swing softly. My mom used to wear that shirt, but it ended up in one of her daughter's drawers. Like with so many things she gives us, we don't question her generosity.
The green toothpaste, matching my shirt, foams white around my teeth, a spurt escaping from the corner of my lips and trailing down my chin. It lands in the sink, the first casualty from this morning's clash. The brush strokes continue, rapid, until the fronts, backs, tops and bottoms of each tooth have been questioned and cross-examined.
I pause.
Then I cross my eyes to see my tongue as I stick it out. I don't think I appreciate my tongue enough. It is a multi-purpose tool, like the lawnmowers sold by fake-tanned salesmen on the shopping network that can also polish your silver or fold your laundry (the lawnmowers, not the salesmen). But like every good tool, even the tongue requires occasional upkeep, and I try to brush it. Done.
The uneven stream of water from the tap rinses the toothbrush, which I then tap dry. Tap, tap. It finds its home nestled amidst the other sleeping toothbrushes. My mouth tastes vaguely clean.
I sag against the counter.
This is a combination of two experiences: waking up and groggily facing the light in the bathroom, and brushing my teeth in my pajamas. Bits of other memories are integrated: a dirty mirror, musing about the importance of the tongue. This makes me uncomfortable: is it the truth, or it is a collage of parts that makes an unrelated whole? What do you think?
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