I had that dream where my teeth fall out
Mid-afternoon at the dentist’s. The hygienist is a bubbly woman whose been cleaning my teeth since I was a child, scrapping off the years’ worth of residue, so I can go about the process of meticulously recreating that same residue, like ancient cities of pixie sticks and coffee stains and grime, conducting the archeological dig of the crown molar. She seems somewhat off today as she sits me down in the chair. I read somewhere that dentists kill themselves more than in any other profession and it makes some amount of sense to me. It seems like an alienating thing, having your hands in someone’s mouth all day, in such close proximity but always so far away. She prattles on at length about her kid’s college and politics, asking me the type of questions which seem evocative of a senior thesis, but by the time I get to answer she’s racing off to other topics, and you just can’t win. But ah, well: it’s probably better if I don’t say anything. At least when you’re silent you can let the other people sell themselves out, with the incipient lack of sanity. And besides, I don’t really have anything to say.

Before leaving she asks me what color toothbrush I want, zipping off an entire color wheel worth of toothbrushes, before I settle on one. “Blue,” I tell her. “Does that say something about me?” Because who ever get the neon lime green, anyhow? “Once in a while someone chooses the lime green” she assures me, “but a lot of people like blue.” At the threshold, I can see her smiling back at me, clutching my new blue toothbrush. Another patient served. I wonder what my life will be like the next time I see her, and it’s always so hard to say. But then I remember: I’ll find out in exactly 7 days, I have a cavity.