Issue/Publication: Unpublished

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He bends over me, powerfully handsome and completely in command, whispering softly into my ear. I am bathed in the scent of cloves, alcohol and expensive shaving lotion.

Every time I have a root canal I entertain this fantasy: I will chuck it all and marry my endodontist, thus ensuring a future free of worry about petty things like money. I figure at the prices he charges, he should have enough for both of us.

Of course he’s not exactly my type—I usually fall for the penniless artist, musician or poet—but I might be persuaded to overlook that troublesome detail in exchange for a life of ease and endless shopping.

He entertains me with amusing anecdotes about his last trip to Telluride. I nod attentively and try to smile through a mouthful of rubber and metal.

My mouth is in your hands, I groan from the back of my throat.

He gives me a reassuring smile. A confidant man by nature, he’s certain that whatever I said, it was complimentary.

I flutter my eyelids provocatively.

It is my third visit, and by now we are on intimate terms.I note with pleasure that he has left his latest issue of Art and Antiques on the chair in his cubicle, knowing instinctively that I will want to read it—we are so alike!

“Water coming,” he murmurs caressingly into my ear. Desperately I will my nose not to itch.

“This distal canal goes nearly all the way to the tip of the root and then splits,” he remarks conversationally. I telegraph utter fascination with my eyes. My lower lip begins to quiver uncontrollably.

The process we are completing now is called, ‘recapitulation,’ he coos intimately, ever anxious to keep me informed.
I wasn’t even aware I had capitulated a first time—though I am feeling a little weakened by his manly proximity.

I am floating languidly in clove-scented nirvana, his fragrant breath on my cheek, when another voice intrudes.

“Your ten o’clock is in the waiting room,” breathes the receptionist softly, reverently.

Dry mouthed, I try vainly to swallow behind my little rubber tent. He pats my shoulder absently, launching into an entertaining account of his next planned trip to Europe.

Take me with you, I plead wordlessly.

“Air coming,” says the doctor.

...

We are dancing on the deck of an elegant cruise ship at sunset, the Costa del Sol behind us in the warm dusk. I wear the diamonds and designer dress he has so thoughtfully provided.

Dreamily I sway in his capable, suntanned arms, pressing close against his body to savor the generous bulge of his money belt.

...

“Rinse, please,” says the nurse crisply.
I open my eyes. The doctor is gone!

Dazedly I stumble out into the bleak morning sunlight and the traffic’s roar, cradling his magazine—my only trophy—under one arm.

The receptionist calls after me. “We’ll bill you,” she says.