The Dentist Chair part #1

I sat there staring out into another one of many cloudy afternoons, my mouth wide open—not in wonder or awed by the serenity. No. It was a far different sensation.

Gliding effortlessly through the sky, were two beautiful hawks searching for prey no doubt. Somewhere they had young mouths to feed, probably with mouths agape, just like mine; maws yearning to be fed while I wanted nothing more than to leave this place of dread.

I watched one of the hawks dive out of site, just as gloved fingers holding a sharp stainless-steel pick blocked my view. I knew somewhere deep down, that I was one simple slip from a catastrophic accident, one that could change my life.

“Spit,” the nice woman said.

She was a gentle soul, talking quietly as she prodded my gums, her electronic tools sounding like a hive of angry wasps. I did like listening to her though, it was a pleasant distraction as I watched the tiny drops of my saliva splattering her visor.

Did I have garlic in my sandwich, today? Was she gagging on the stale remnants of my lunch? Please … no!

“Are you flossing?”

Oh my God, I thought. Was it twice these past few months, or did I floss at all? Yes, I did I remembered, and more than just a few times.

“Yes Ma’am,” I said sheepishly.

“You’ve done well, Mister Shaw.”

I smiled the best I could with that blasted suction tube under my tongue. Was I drooling now too? Good grief, I’m an adult man! Why? Why?

Hours and maybe days later, she raised the chair. I was done. I stood and surveyed the scene expecting some sign of blood work.

“Mint or sensitive gum toothpaste,” she asked.

“Sensitive? Are you serious,” I asked. “Mint!” I said standing tall. After all, I am a man.