I have this toothpaste that a friend got back from Italy. She brought other things too—egg pasta, truffles, limoncello, a shot glass—but the toothpaste, that was my favourite. When she got me the package home I got curious about her peculiar choice, why'd you ferry a toothpaste back? 

"Cause I know you like this stuff. I know you like toothpaste and oral hygiene."

She wasn't wrong, that is the best fucking toothpaste I have ever used in all these years. It was spicy and fragrant and fresh, enough to make you feel like you acquired a new mouth. 

I dug deep on the internet and looked out for ways to purchase that. Turns out, despite all the multiculturalism arguments and globalization policies, we still can't afford to buy toothpaste from Italy and they still won't sell that here. 

I did the most me thing I could come up with, I decided to save it. 

I told myself I'd only use it before a hook-up or a date, y'know, why waste such a thing? 

As luck would have had it, the opportunity to do that never came. When it did, I wasn't anticipating it and I never got to use the toothpaste from Italy. 

Earlier this year, the world was Covidized. When the outbreak in Italy became serious and the country came under a lockdown, I was concerned about the supply of Marvis. Would the locals finish it up? Would I ever get a chance again to get another tube? I was hoping to ask a friend and her husband to bring me two packs back, as a souvenir from their trip over the Summer. 

Their trip, like this year, was cancelled. 

Life's funny because of the timing of these episodes. About a week ago, the said friend who introduced me to Marvis lashed out and surgically removed me from her life. There were all these decaying thoughts and tangible memories in the form of presents and things we had exchanged over the years that languished around me and I didn't know what to do with, including Marvis. The miniature toothpaste stared at me, day after day. It was nestled between the bedside lamp and a box of hairclips that I store for easy access. I could have put it in the washroom, but somehow, it was too precious and too perfect to be relegated to space where you defecate. 

Last night, when I couldn't stare at my laptop any longer and my sensibilities were drained enough for me to physically move two steps, I went to brush my teeth and found no toothpaste next to my toothbrush. My sister had taken our regular supply to the hospital, where she was staying as an attendant with my grandfather who is hospitalized at the moment. 

I decided to use the toothpaste to finish it off. At 4 am I drew a pea-sized serving and brushed my teeth, and went to bed. It was finally the time to use Marvis, the miniature I was keeping for a good day to become better.