Issue 12: October 2007.
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Perfect Teeth
by Tammy Ho and Reid Mitchell
BOY: I met a girl in the likeness of my mother. Her hair seemed to fill half of the waiting room. I bowed to her and she gave me a faint smile.
GIRL: I smiled narrowly. Smile to indicate my interest; narrow to hide my yellowing teeth. His feet were tiny, like a baby's or a doll's.
BOY: I did not stop there. I asked if she was waiting to see the dentist. She nodded and only looked at my shoes. I was also waiting to see the dentist.
GIRL: His shoes were expensive but needed polish. Or they were cheap and spit-shined to a patent leather gloss. I thought to myself, this should tell you something.
BOY: My mom was actually the dentist. I remember my dad, a dentist himself, was upset that my mom started her own clinic. The girl had the same hairstyle and nose my mom had. The resemblances were uncanny. I shifted my legs so as to hide my feet under the magazine table.
GIRL: I remember that. He was so cute—so shy and so silly that he couldn't even see that the magazine table top was glass. My dentist had told me she had a son about my age; she also told me that I would be a pretty girl if I had my teeth fixed.
BOY: Her name was called and she walked into the dentist's room. I knew it's her name because she stood up abruptly when the name was announced. It was a beautiful name, but I cannot remember it now.
GIRL: It's just a common name, no more beautiful than a pigeon trapped in Central or a girl waiting for the Star Ferry. When I walked in, my dentist said, "Now you have seen my son." Her smile displayed her perfect teeth that even she could not have given herself. Although her husband is generally respected, she had taken her smile to another dentist.
I chose her for my dentist because she has the same name as I do.
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