The hygienist, as you would expect,
has brilliant teeth and lovely gums, similar
in color and sheen to the grapefruit wedge
she spoons into her mouth. Then toast with butter,
yogurt, tea – a perfect morning meal
and not one greasy crumb on her scrubs.
Her boyfriend, a soldier, will soon return
from the front, shake the desert from his cuffs
and speak only of her delicious
cobbler and skilled but dainty hands. The tremors,
she is certain, will go away. Yet
today the hygienist is grumpy.
Her roster of patients includes two
pathologically negligent flossers.
Mr. Brendt and Mr. Gabriel refuse
to believe they’ll lose their teeth, poking
fun through spittle and blood and salient
lectures about inflammation and gum
disease. “Fucking pollyannas,” she thinks,
glancing around the cozy mauve and
champagne kitchen she hates to leave. The morning
outside is filled with birdsong, the season’s
first insects frantic in patches of sun.
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