There’s a toothbrush in the bathroom that doesn’t belong to me. Its his and he left it here the last time he stayed over.

My house had been commandeered for the biggest and most extravagant bash of all time, the party to end all parties. It had been a wild, wanton affair that drew swarms of people I never knew were friends of mine. Everyone and their brother flooded my home, transforming it into Grand Central Station, South, while I stood helplessly by, praying to any deity I thought would listen to my supplications for the safety of my once peaceful abode. Whatever words I mumbled heavenward must have fit the bill because at the end of the night my place hadn’t endured any structural damage and there were only a few drunken straglers for whom I had to call cabs.

He was the very last person to leave, and while his eyes were glassy from one too many beers and the apples of his cheeks stood out in sharp, bright pink contrast to his smooth white skin, he offered to stay. He’d help me clean up in the morning, he said. He told me not to worry about the spilled tequila on my living room carpet, assured me that the empty beer bottles and ashtrays full of cigarette butts could wait until after the sun rose high into the sky.

At first, I waved off his generosity, preferring instead to pretend I didn’t really need his help. But he is nothing if not persistent, so I soon gave up what I knew was sure to be a losing battle.

When he realized he had won, a smile as bright as a 150 watt bulb shone on his face. His eyes all but exploded into tiny star bursts and I wondered if he knew just what his gold on green orbs did to my insides. Whenever he looked at me, sparing even the slightest glance in my direction, I could feel my stomach drop straight down into my toes as each of my internal organs twisted in on themselves, wringing and cringing in half pleasure and half pain at his attention. My body would flush and my palms become sweaty until I felt entirely too much like a trepidatious fourteen year old facing a crush.

He stayed the night, as we both knew he would, and while I denied him another beer -he’d had more than enough all ready- it was all I could do not to deny him the pleasure of my company for a few final moments of post party introspection. We sat quietly together in the kitchen, not saying anything of any particular importance, just exchanging platitudes regarding the success of the party, the beauty of the people in attendance and the high quality of the alcohol that had been served. It was our last fancy free evening before resuming the second leg of our tour, and I could almost feel a set of imaginary shackles reattaching themselves to my ankles; conjured in mind, certainly, though their weight was real enough to have effect.

I had intended to show him to the guest room, but when we climbed the stairs he wrapped his arms around my waist, pillowed his head on my shoulder, and asked sweetly -oh so sweetly- if he could stay the night with me. He didn’t want to be alone, he said, and I understood. I couldn’t have refused his mumbled but sincere request anyway, since his voice was so dark and husky and deep it rattled every nerve center in my body. He clutched at me tightly, shuffling his leaden feet with an odd brand of clumsy finesse as his eyelids drooped lower by the second. I tucked him into one side of my bed, not bothering to remove anything but his shoes from his body. He didn’t seem interested in the condition he slept in and frankly, I don’t know if I could have maintained a shred of my sanity if I had undressed him further.

So I let him be as I changed out of my own clothes, permeated with the stench of sweat, smoke, and beer. I pulled on a pair of loose fitting sweatpants and a thin white tee shirt before crawling up onto my mattress beside him. He had fallen into the sort of instantaneous deep sleep that is the earmark of the inebriated and I, in turn, laid awake for the better part of an hour. I stared at the ceiling as though it held all the fascination of the Sistine in it’s white wash state. I instinctively matched my breathing to his and taking comfort in the rhythm of our bodies, I finally let my conscious drop away in respite, where more then our respiration worked in tandem.

The next morning, he woke before I did despite the heavy amount of liquor he had consumed the night before. Its funny how he always manages to regain his business-like persona before the morning creeps too far into the afternoon. He’s like two sides of a coin sometimes, the way he parties at night and reads through contracts by day. I don’t think a hangover has ever kept him down and out, though he’s infamous for his inability to handle alcohol in any great quantity.

That morning, his gentle touch on my shoulder brought me surfacing from a sea of slumber. Got an extra toothbrush? My mouth feels like something curled up and died in it.

I nodded and ran a hand through my unruly curls as I dragged myself out of bed to rummage around beneath the sink for the toothbrush I remembered stashing there. It was tucked all the way in the back of the cubbyhole beneath the porcelain bowl of the sink, and I noted with a certain amount of chagrin that it was pink. I handed the unopened package to him with as much nonchalance I could muster, though I didn’t miss his raised brows or playful smirk. At least he didn’t comment, I can give him that much. And he used the toothbrush too, after I mumbled something along the lines of Beggars can’t be choosers....

I leaned in the doorway as he brushed, trying not to look at his thick honey colored hair, still wet from his shower and spiked with charming disarray. I also tried not to take notice of his shirtless physic, the broad smooth muscles of his back, his toned arms and torso. He might not be sculpted like a Greek god per se, but he is certainly well built and it shows. Starring past his body, I gazed at his reflection in the mirror, my eyes catching sight of tiny erotic details that made me flush in embarrassment. I took special note of the line of the downy hair that trailed from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of his well worn jeans. I couldn’t miss the soft dusky rose buds of his nipples either. Or the way his Levis hung low on his hips, the elastic of his briefs just barely peeking above the rim.

I didn’t want to be caught staring, so I turned away from the bathroom and tugged fiercely at my curls to stop myself from turning right back around again. Instead, I clamored down the stairs and into the kitchen, intent on making breakfast for the two of us. It was the least I could do and I was desperate for a distraction, so I busied myself with eggs and bacon and bread that went immediately into the toaster.

Lance came down after a few minutes, still smelling fresh and clean from my shampoo and the bar of Zest I was partial to. He buttered the toast while I fried the eggs in a pan, but despite our closer proximity, we didn’t say much of anything. We worked together in companionable silence, but I had an overwhelming feeling that something we should have been expressing was remaining unsaid.

He didn’t hang around long after breakfast, calling a cab just as soon as the dishes were in the sink. I knew from experience that his ride would be there in about seven and a half minutes, and the cabby this time around stayed true to the norm. As the horn blared from the end of the driveway, I walked Lance to the door where we stood with sudden, uncharacteristic awkwardness for several long moments before he finally leaned over and pressed his lips to my cheek.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

And then he was out the door, down the walk, and in the back of the cab faster than he’d ever left before. I stood in the doorway for a long time after that, holding my fingertips to the skin his mouth had touched. I felt a little like a lovesick school girl, sans the Catholic uniform, and told myself I was being stupid. But that didn’t stop me from using the pink toothbrush, that lay across the side of the sink that morning. And every morning after.