Still Good

The razor was still on the ledge,

pale green, a rust halo thin as a thread

around the blade, sitting on the soap dish's

wet edge like it had every right.

Mine was dull. I used his.

I didn't think too hard about it.

I was already running late

and he had been gone three weeks

and it was still good, I thought,

the way you think that about leftovers —

you open the container and sniff

and decide: still good.

I sat in the restaurant bathroom before dessert,

the stall door's paint peeling in one long strip,

and thought about the legs.

About whose hands last touched

that plastic handle.

Fine, I told myself. Practical.

The man at the table was kind.

Was already

smiling at something on his phone.