Chapter 5: The Toothbrush and the Tongue
The water had been running for three minutes before Mohammed realized he'd been staring at the same crack in the mirror—that thin, spidering line that ran from the top corner down past his reflection's left eye, splitting his face in two. He blinked. The mint burned his gums.
The toothbrush moved in slow circles over his molars. His jaw ached from clenching all night. Behind him, through the thin wall, he could hear Zainab's radio murmuring the morning news in Farsi—something about shipping lanes, oil prices, the same recycled anxieties that made his mother-in-law click her tongue and mutter about the old country.
He spat into the sink. Pink-tinged foam swirled down the drain.
"You're using all the hot water again."
Mahra's voice came from behind him, thick with sleep. He didn't turn around. Just watched her reflection materialize in the mirror—that pale face, those dark eyes still half-lidded, her black hair a tangled storm around her shoulders. The jalabiya hung open down the front. Nothing underneath. He could see the curve of her breast, the soft swell of her belly, the dark triangle between her thighs.
He grunted. "There's no hot water. There's barely any water."
"There's enough." She pressed against his back, her chin on his shoulder, and reached around him for the toothbrush. Her fingers closed over his. "You've been in here forever."
He let her take it. Watched in the mirror as she raised the brush to her own mouth—the same brush, still wet with his spit, still tasting of the mint he'd been chewing on for five minutes. She scrubbed her teeth with quick, efficient strokes, her eyes meeting his in the glass. There was something playful there. Something hungry.
"Good morning to you too," he said.
She spat into the sink, rinsed, spat again. "It's almost eight. You're going to be late."
"Let me be late."
She turned him around with a hand on his chest. The tiles were cold under her bare feet—he could see her toes curl against the cracked ceramic, that one loose tile that had been threatening to pop free for months now. The bathroom was small enough that they were always touching, always breathing each other's air. He could smell her skin, that warm, sleepy scent, and underneath it the faint trace of last night—sweat and sex and the musky evidence of what they'd done in the dark.
She dropped to her knees.
"Mahra—"
"Shh."
The tiles were wet. He saw her wince as her kneecaps hit the floor, but she didn't stop. Her fingers found the waistband of his shorts, tugged them down over his hips. He was already half-hard—had been since she'd pressed against him, since he'd felt the heat of her through the thin cotton of her jalabiya. The morning light through the grimy window caught the curve of her shoulders, the soft white expanse of her back.
She pulled him out.
The air hit his skin, cool and sharp, and then her mouth was on him. Wet. Warm. Still tasting of mint and spit.
"Fuck," he breathed.
Her tongue ran up the length of him—root to tip, slow and deliberate, the way she did when she wanted to torture him. Her lips sealed around the head. Her hand wrapped around the base, squeezing just enough. He watched himself disappear between her lips, watched the way her cheeks hollowed, the way her eyes fluttered shut.
The toothbrush lay forgotten on the edge of the sink.
He grabbed her hair. Not gently. His fingers twisted in the dark tangle and she made a sound—low in her throat, a vibration that traveled up his spine and settled somewhere behind his eyes. He pulled her closer. Deeper. Felt the back of her throat resist, then yield.
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. They tracked down her white cheeks, cutting through the flush that had risen there. She didn't pull away. Her hand moved faster, working what her mouth couldn't reach, and the sounds she made—wet, desperate, entirely unashamed—filled the small room.
"Look at me," he said.
She opened her eyes. Looked up at him through wet lashes. And that was it—that was the thing that broke him, every time. The way she looked at him like he was the only thing in the world worth worshiping.
He fucked her throat. Short, sharp thrusts that made her gag, made her nails dig into his thighs. The sink rattled. The mirror shook. On the other side of the wall, the radio still murmured its steady stream of bad news.
He was close. So fucking close.
"Mahra—"
She pulled back. Just enough. Her mouth opened, tongue flat and waiting, and he came with a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a prayer. It hit her tongue. Her chin. A drop landed on her collarbone, glistening.
He stood there, chest heaving, hand still tangled in her hair.
And then he heard it—the soft scuff of a slipper on tile.
Zainab stood in the doorway.
She was wearing her house dress, that faded floral thing that had been washed so many times the pattern was barely visible. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. In her hand, a cup of tea steamed gently, the scent of cardamom cutting through the salt and sex in the air.
She took a sip. Watched.
Mahra didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. She stayed on her knees, mouth open, letting her mother see the evidence of what she'd done. Then, slowly, deliberately, she closed her lips and swallowed.
Zainab raised an eyebrow. "You'll be late for work."
"He knows," Mahra said. Her voice was hoarse. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and stood, knees cracking. "He doesn't care."
"I don't care," Mohammed confirmed. He pulled his shorts up, tucked himself away. His hands were shaking slightly. They always did after.
Zainab took another sip of tea. Her eyes moved from her daughter's flushed face to the mess on the floor—the wet tiles, the discarded toothbrush, the faint smear of something on the edge of the sink. She didn't comment on any of it. She never did, not directly. Instead, she said, "The landlord called. About the AC."
"What about it?" Mahra asked. She was adjusting her jalabiya, pulling it closed over her chest, though she didn't bother tying it.
"He says we're using too much. Says it's driving up the building's bill."
Mohammed laughed—a short, humorless sound. "It's forty degrees outside. What does he want us to do?"
"He wants more money." Zainab shrugged. "I told him we'd think about it."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I told him to go fuck himself, but politely."
Mahra snorted. She reached past Mohammed for the toothbrush, ran it under the tap, and stuck it back in her mouth. The taste of him was still there, mixing with the mint, and she didn't mind. She caught her mother's eye in the mirror and held it.
"What?" she asked around the brush.
"Nothing." Zainab turned to go, then paused. "There's bread. And eggs. If you want breakfast."
"Thanks, Mama."
The older woman disappeared down the narrow hallway, her slippers whispering against the floor. The radio clicked off. The house settled into its usual morning quiet—the hum of the AC, the distant drone of traffic, the occasional clatter of pots from the kitchen.
Mohammed leaned against the sink. His legs felt unsteady. He watched Mahra brush her teeth—his teeth, their teeth—and felt something expand in his chest. Not love, exactly. Something bigger. Something that had no name.
"We should eat," he said.
"We should shower."
"Both?"
She spat one last time, rinsed the brush, and set it down. Then she turned to him, and that smile—that dangerous, knowing smile—spread across her face.
"Both," she agreed. "But you're washing my back."
He reached for the shower knob. The pipes groaned. Somewhere in the walls, water began to move.
Behind them, through the thin walls, they heard Zainab's voice, raised just enough to carry: "Leave the door open. It gets steamy in there."
Mahra laughed. Mohammed shook his head.
The water ran cold for three seconds, then hot. They stepped in together, and the day began.