I’ve a dentist appointment lurking on the horizon like a knitting needle in plush carpet.
I’m very in tune with my body so I can tell you right now I have two almost-cavities and one true cavity. It’s not fillings I fear but how close the dentist’s face gets to mine when she does it.
The dentist has two children with carbon copies of her celebrity face. She’s one of the lucky ones, the ones who qualified for nonseminal pregnancy. I hear it’s an abrasive procedure. They look deep into your family history and even the smallest of blips—say, a great-great-grandmother with psoriasis— could disqualify you. But, with more and more women qualifying, we’ve been steadily weeding out fathers. You know what they say—there’s nothing wrong with ugliness, but you don’t want it coming from you. I’m a traditional breed—a seminal pregnancy with a standard mother and father, neither of whom I’ve seen since.
I have this dentist appointment I could easily cancel but like I’ve said, we’re steadily weeding out fathers and therefore steadily weeding out ugly, so dentistry is a dying profession. The dentist’s children were born with a full set of ivory in their mouths—not blinding white like the veneers of the past but white enough to flex they were bred for the jet set.
Like any standard mother, mine gifted me gluttony. And like any standard father, mine gifted me anger. I was born with a mouthful of petrified wood, now a splintered landscape. That’s why I started seeing her—the dentist. If I had the money, it could’ve only taken one appointment to encase what’s left of my jaw in resin, but I’m strapped for cash and had to divvy it up into four appointments over the course of a moon-year. It’s my third that’s on the horizon and I’ve realized now we should’ve started in the back, where my one true cavity has developed since my second appointment. If I cancel, it’ll rot into the rest of me, into numbness. If I go, the sharp pain will be chronic, preserved.
I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do, but I’m going to stop thinking about it for now while I entertain options for lunch.
Around the corner from my first-floor apartment is a noodle shop that serves patrons in private crates through a tiny hole just below eye-level—an ethical practice to avoid eye contact that might remind you of your place.
Here is where I lucked out—my first-floor apartment around the corner from the ethical noodle shop. It’s a spacious studio with no windows or reflective surfaces, hard to find for someone of my tax bracket. You can tell there was never a mirror in the bathroom, the way the ceiling slopes into a steep dome. It’s a luxury construction, and sure, I’m not in the best part of town, but what I’m paying reflects that.
I’m almost always sitting on my legless couch. I’m sitting here now, in fact, as I write to you. I wear a floor-length coat, olive green bull denim. I lucked out with this, too—in the buying season, everyone scrambles for color and usually what’s left is Nazi brown. This year, I pulled a good number and was able to choose from three shades of green. I think this one complements my complexion.
I head out to the noodle shop. I wonder which hand will serve me today.
There’s one I’m convinced belongs to my father. I accidentally grazed it with my own last week and it instinctively yanked back. I saw it again a day or so later and I could tell the finger I touched was starting to bloat.
The shop has three levels of crates, but I’m here early enough so I can pick one on the ground instead of having to hoist myself up. Inside doesn’t look much different than out and I’m sure all the crates are the same, but my preference is the bottom left. There’s a cat-size hole in the corner and sometimes I’m visited while I eat—I know this defeats the purpose of the noodle shop, but the cat that sees me just curls around my feet and purrs. The cat reminds me of the dentist in this way. She, too, knows not to look into my eyes. But how much longer can she keep that up when she’s so close to my face? I know, I said I wouldn’t think about it anymore. I’m sorry. I wasn’t always this way—apologetic.
A pretty hand serves me today. Long and slender, it manages to hover perfectly at the center of the hole meant for it. I’m careful not to touch. I wonder if my maybe-father is alright.
Since I don’t hear much commotion from the neighboring crates, I take my time with eating.
Before my first appointment with the dentist, I ordered a tiny camera to hang from my uvula. I wanted to see what she looked like in real-time, not just in the still photograph next to her name on the office door. The camera’s gray exterior was supposed to blend in with my mouth flesh but the white cables must’ve given it away. Still, the dentist said nothing. When I went to remove the contraption after, I nearly castrated my uvula, the cable tightening in a death grip. I haven’t watched the footage.
The cat doesn’t visit me today while I’m eating and I notice the corner hole she’d come through has been sealed up, albeit thinly, with a still-wet paste. I decide to go for a walk after lunch—the streets are empty enough that it doesn’t feel irresponsible to wander. This part of the city is all corners, each street edging into the next.
Outside, I adjust myself, dust off the sides of my coat. My feet stick out, their sun-color, blinding, even for me, against this grayscale city. The coat’s fabric is stretched taut; I must’ve outgrown it. A walk may be irresponsible after all. I move down the street too aware of myself. I thought I was past the growing stage, but I can feel now that I’m not, now that I’m upright and moving, breathing outdoor air. My sleeves leave my wrists exposed. I can’t see the dentist like this.
I don’t think I’m a monster and perhaps that’s the most monstrous thing about me.
Let’s say the man whose hand bloats at my touch is my father. He keeps close, watching. How tender.
I let this tenderness carry me home, the noodle broth heavy in my stomach, outweighing my nonsensical class pretension.
It’s time to watch my mouth footage.
The dentist wears a mirror for a face.
Rachel Stempel is a genderqueer Ukrainian-Jewish poet and educator. They are the author of BEFORE THE DESIRE TO EAT (Finishing Line Press 2022) and their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from New Delta Review, the Journal, Penn Review, and elsewhere. They currently live on Long Island with their rabbit, Diego.
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