“Do you feel pain?” she purrs. Not enough to stop. Nothing would be worse than to stop now. Every uninterrupted second another chance to hear “Open.” “Relax.” “Please rinse your mouth.” Especially please rinse your mouth. There’s just something about the way she says it while controlling my ups, my downs, my every move in this hydraulic chair that makes the mind wander. She completes me here, a demure mystery tucked inside anonymous scrubs and matching Crocs enigma, hiding behind a highly professional mask. Any communication exceeding these regular commands requires a dental assistant with better English to translate who I’ll never allow to come between us. Three’s a crowd besides suction or quietly passing along an instrument she needs to repair my ugly American past. Reception refers only to “the Doctor,” but she is re-creation to steal a line from the titanic and kindred shit for teeth spirit, Patti Smith. Benediction. Sublimation. The root connection, too. That’s all I know. Will ever know. Maybe late thirties. Way younger than me. Surely has a sweet name. A sensible life. Hopes and dreams, if not shared desires, beyond another nasty extraction to save the gums of this grateful gaijin with insurance for the first time. Free Luigi, sayonara Icarus Musk, smile like you mean it, and please, please rinse your mouth by wishing she well in a world where words are weapons and heavy is the mouth that wears the crown.