Xe used to store xyr paint brushes in our toilet. “Why waste the water to wash them if we can just pull them out before we pee?” When I would lay in the bath, waiting for xem to finish xyr shift at the restaurant, I would see them there, the paint colored wooden tips of the brushes. It made me smile that they exceeded the rim of the toilet like that. Something about them sticking up, differently erect, felt like the bravery of queer lovers to me.
The lovers were sitting on a threshold between cold dry air and warm wet air. They were an embodiment of
threshold as collaborative identity.