His metal tools scrape my molars so forcefully, I wince hard behind the mega thick sunglasses and look at the ceiling. I taste blood. I think I might cry. It hurts that bad, whatever it is he is doing. 

He’s rambling dentist jargon. I try to follow. When he moves his hands back, I repeat what I've been told. 

“So basically, my mouth is this gaping blackhole and my teeth will fall out.”  

He pauses. Shifts back. His face is covered in layers of glasses, masks, shields and a bright headlamp. It all glares back at me, inches from my face. My inevitable decrepit destiny. 

“I wouldn't say that.” 

I didn't. 

"That’s what you just said,” I retort, jabbing my finger in the air to make my point more clear. 

“Well true, but I wouldn’t say it that dramatically.” 

“You just said something about blackholes and triangles and my gums breaking away.” 

“Well yes.” 

Okay then, tell me in less dramatic terms what is going on here. You said my gums are disintegrating or something and my teeth will disappear or fall out. And that all of this is not fixable. That is what you told me. 

Now he laughs. 

He sticks a tiny mirror in my mouth with more pointy tools that he flips end to end like a pencil and eraser. 

“You don’t need to use as heavy a hand when you brush your teeth.” 

I picture a jackhammer. I can change that.  

“Your teeth look ages older than you are.” 

He doesn't say it out loud but the word ANCIENT rings over me and my thick shades and blue plastic bib. I ponder this new information: I have very old teeth. What can I say? I'm an old soul. At least my teeth embrace it. 

He paints a final coat on my teeth that leaves them feeling gritty like sand. Even when we are clean and at our best, we are bumpy, uneven, and will need more repairs eventually. I can live with it.