The last of the toothpaste

In my workshop last week, I picked three random phrases from The Writer’s Toolbox, issued them every three minutes and we used them to form the basis of a story. The three phrases were: the last of the toothpaste, a red leather journal and Paris in August. Here’s what I wrote. Why not try it yourself?

The last of the toothpaste was still sitting there on the bathroom sink. She knew that she should use it. it was only toothpaste after all. it was silly to be sentimental about a plastic tube. But she was and so there it stayed, day after day.

She’d started using a new brand, the blue super-minty kind that he’d never liked. It was an attempt to reclaim her own identity, to make things different. This was how she’d heard it was done, with small alterations and adjustments until a future emerged. But still, she couldn’t quite bring herself to throw it away.

Sometimes whole minutes would go by while she stood there contemplating the toothpaste. Sometimes she stared at it for so long that she started to imagine she could still see the imprint of his fingers. She tried to remember when he’d bought it. Such an ordinary act but precious now. She wanted to remember everything about him, everything he’d ever done.

Recently, she’d been recording her memories in the red leather journal that she’d bought him last year for his birthday. He’d never used it. ‘Writing is your thing, not mine,’ he’d said. Maybe he was right but something had made her buy it for him. Perhaps some part of her had known somehow that he wouldn’t be around for much longer and that she would want something to hold onto - precious memories bound in leather. Now only she remained to tell the story, and instead of words she was left only with the dregs of the toothpaste.

She picked the tube up and stared at it again. She could squeeze it now onto the bamboo toothpaste that he’d bought her when he’d decided to be more ecological. Or she could leave it there for just a bit longer. She put it back and used the blue minty one, then she went back into the bedroom and opened up the journal as she did every morning.

Only, this morning, she decided to do things differently. Small alterations, incremental change. She opened the book at the back instead of the front and there was a list in his fine, neat handwriting. A bucket list: Things to do before I’m fifty. Her eyes filled with tears. He would never hang glide from Stanage Edge. He would never form a punk band. He would never go to Paris in August.

But she could. She looked at her phone. It was August now and the days stretched out like long shadows before her. Before she knew what she was doing she was searching for flights and hotels. Then she was packing her bag with summer dresses and sandals. She went into the bathroom to collect her toiletries and saw the toothpaste. She stuffed it into the bag alongside the toothbrush. There would just be enough to last for a mini-break. She would squeeze out the last dregs in Paris.