A Visit to the Dentist
A Visit to the Dentist
I slowly and very reluctantly push the door open. The bell tinkles, with a soft but shrill ring. The smell of the rubber gloves and disinfectant which was attempted to hide through a cheap air freshener washes over me. Chairs are cluttered in the tiny waiting room of the dentists. Piles of magazines lie all over the scratched wood of the coffee tables, shiny bright plastic screaming out different logos and slogans. A little way forward from where I stand is a desk. A smiling receptionist sits there with a palstic smile on her face. She seems to have been expecting me somehow, as she motions for me to sit down on one of the couches or chairs. A few nervous patients are already there. They try to keep their eyes turned away from the closed, threatening doors leading to the dental surgery rooms, where the scary sounding high pitched screeching sound is coming from. Every once in awhile, I hear a muffled bang, or cry. One by one, the receptionist calls out the patients name; “Sarah Klein!” or, “Devora Saks!” Covering all the walls are dramatic “Before/After” photos. They show yellow teeth, set crookedly in red raw swollen gums becoming perfectly white and straight. The walls are painted a clean white. However many different pictures of people with toothy grins look down at me, from newspaper clippings from over the years. I guess Im imagining it, but I can already taste the slightly stale, bubblegum flavoured gloves, the cool hard metal of the examining probe, and the chink clink it makes when it sometimes collides with my teeth. I can feel the vinyl of the reclining chairs, which are covered in plastic, and also which clammy legs have a habit to stick to. In my mind I see the perfect teeth of my dentist, a great advertisement for his business. I watch as a little girl leaves the dentists room. In her mouth she is biting down on a big piece of white cotton, that is slowly but surely turning red. Her eyes filled with tears, she
I slowly and very reluctantly push the door open. The bell tinkles, with a soft but shrill ring. The smell of the rubber gloves and disinfectant which was attempted to hide through a cheap air freshener washes over me. Chairs are cluttered in the tiny waiting room of the dentists. Piles of magazines lie all over the scratched wood of the coffee tables, shiny bright plastic screaming out different logos and slogans. A little way forward from where I stand is a desk. A smiling receptionist sits there with a palstic smile on her face. She seems to have been expecting me somehow, as she motions for me to sit down on one of the couches or chairs. A few nervous patients are already there. They try to keep their eyes turned away from the closed, threatening doors leading to the dental surgery rooms, where the scary sounding high pitched screeching sound is coming from. Every once in awhile, I hear a muffled bang, or cry. One by one, the receptionist calls out the patients name; “Sarah Klein!” or, “Devora Saks!” Covering all the walls are dramatic “Before/After” photos. They show yellow teeth, set crookedly in red raw swollen gums becoming perfectly white and straight. The walls are painted a clean white. However many different pictures of people with toothy grins look down at me, from newspaper clippings from over the years. I guess Im imagining it, but I can already taste the slightly stale, bubblegum flavoured gloves, the cool hard metal of the examining probe, and the chink clink it makes when it sometimes collides with my teeth. I can feel the vinyl of the reclining chairs, which are covered in plastic, and also which clammy legs have a habit to stick to. In my mind I see the perfect teeth of my dentist, a great advertisement for his business. I watch as a little girl leaves the dentists room. In her mouth she is biting down on a big piece of white cotton, that is slowly but surely turning red. Her eyes filled with tears, she