treatswords

Getting out of the house in 2020 is rare, which is why I took my 3 PM root canal as a social outting.

I arrive freshly showered, my hair shimmering with silver and purple strands from my violet shampoo.

The receptionist kindly tries to make small talk about my hair.

“Is that purple shampoo you use? My daughter just started using that too! She just loves it…she’s only nine though.”

I giggle and respond with an, “Oh yeah?” Not sure if that is a sentence ender or if I just teased the conversation to drag on longer. 2020 has also caused me to forget how to engage in small talk.

She continues to check me in, my mouth feels dry. I picture small, plush bulbs of cotton growing under my tongue. I wipe the milky substance from the corner of my lips and sit in the waiting room.

Dentists frighten me. Ever since I had a cold metal tool drudge up my four wisdom teeth sans anesthesia, I just didn’t trust them. Their blue gloves, blinding yellow overhead light, nestling behind a magnifying glass, metal tool in hand, attempting to see the very soul of my tooth. The removal of my molars somehow left me wiser, I officially avoided the dentist when I could.

A friendly woman, probably in her mid twenties, waves me back.

“Calissa, come on over!”

We take an X-ray and soon I am laid back in a green leather chair, my now large seeming feet sprawled out in front of me. My socks don’t match and the tabs on my once white Adidas shoes are browning, like the yellow coffee stains on my teeth.

“Want a blanket?” She asks.

“Uh, sure!”

A cheap fleece blanket is thrown over me, a safe place for my increasingly sweaty hands to rest.

The Dental Hygienist cracks jokes and makes appropriate small talk. I forget what a fresh sense of humor feels like. I feel my brain firing in ways 2020 has not allowed it to. It’s listening to a new mind, following new trails. I picture my brain sparking, flashes of yellow and green lighting up my limbic system.

The Endodontic Specialist enters the room. Who knew there was such a profession. I imagine the type of person who is that infatuated and devoted to teeth to take the extra years of schooling after becoming a certified Dentist. The type of person who dreams of scooping the pink pulp from an infected tooth, admiring the draping roots of a molar.

I picture his living room, a large oak bookshelf stacked with books on dentistry. The books never collecting dust as they are cracked open nightly, his brain inhaling details of enamel. Every Christmas a porcelain crown placed delicately at the top of his tree. Plugging in a string of lights, illuminating inside the crown, exposing the intestines of a tooth, shining for all to see.

“Honey, isn’t it beautiful?” He would say to his wife.

He has to me married…I think, as he cozies my nose into the Nitrous Oxide mask.

Luke…I am your father...I hear playing over and over in my head as the air gushes in and out of my nostrils. I don’t laugh. I tire of my own jokes in 2020.

He has dark hair, brilliantly white teeth, a chiseled jaw and golden eyes.

“How’s the level of the gas?”

“Good…I think….yeah, good.”

“Feel like you just started Happy Hour?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect.” He says.

He stings my gums with a long needle and I feel the left side of my face droop into numbness.

The Endodontics Specialist at Happy Hour. I ponder what his drink of choice would be. A dry martini, extra olive? Maybe a dash of fluoride to spice things up.

Who is a Dentist without teeth?

He reminds me of a character in a fantasy movie or novel. Maybe a new and improved rendering of Twilight.

The Endodontics Specialist bursts into the room, he peels off his white lab coat, ripping his blue collard shirt open, buttons bouncing off the wall. His back arches, howling to the moon that is nestling into the belly of the sky. The full moon so bloated, it leaves smudge marks on the window. He rips off my mask and sinks his canines into my cheek, an evening treat.

The Nitrous Oxide leaks into my nose, I wonder if this storyline would make for a good short. It’s a little flimsy, but ideas in 2020 are rare. I tuck it away to share with my boyfriend later.

The Dental Hygienist and Endodontics Specialist giggle with one another. Her hand reading his mind when he looks up for the next tool.

She sings.

He looks into my sunglasses and says, “I’m terribly sorry for her vocals.”

I think I laugh too, I am not sure as my mouth is now a numb black hole, swallowing silver dentals tools and blood.

Maybe they are having an affair?

The werewolf Endodontics Specialist fucking his Hygienist. I wonder if his wife knows.

He comes home after a long day.

“Doesn’t the office close at 7?” She asks, setting the table for dinner.

“I had an emergency appointment, pushed me back a bit.”

“Mhm…” She says, pouring herself a third glass of Malbec.

He slinks into his chair at the table, lapping his wine with his canine tongue, a hicky hiding beneath his neck fur.

The procedure seems to go smoothly. I have a dull ache in my ear and a big lip when I leave.

“Keep the blanket!” The Dental Hegienist says, bagging it up for me in a string tied sack.

My boyfriend is waiting outside in his Mini-Cooper, rain pelting on the gray paint.

I tell him about my newfound writing inspiration.

The werewolf Endodontics Specialist, having a sleazy affair.

He listens, caringly, knowing I have lost my mind.

I wish I knew everythign about teeth. I want to call the office back to ask for an interview with the Specialist.

“Why teeth?” I would ask.

His lips curling into a smile, head tilting back, letting out a long howl.