I push the door open The bell inkles, with a soft but shrill ling. A wave of
rubber gloves and disinfectant masked with cheaper freshener washes over
me. Chairs are cluttered in the waiting room of the dentists.
Clusters of magazines lie on the scratched wood of the coffee table. Shiny
bright plastic screaming out logos and slogans. A little way forward from
where i stand is a desk.
A smiling receptionist sits there. She seems to have been expecting me
somehow, as she indicates to the couches and chairs.
A few nervous patients are already there. They E to avert their safe from the
closed, threatening doors leading to the dental surgery rooms, where an
ominous high pitched whirring sound is coming from.
Occasionally, I hear a muffled thud, or yell. One by one, the receptionist calls
out the patients name; “Baker, John!" or, "Higgins, Samantha!"
Plastered on the walls are dramatic "Before/ After" photos. They show yellow
teeth, set crookedly in red raw gums becoming brilliantly white and starlight.
The walls are painted a stark, clinical white, however photographs of people
with toothy grins beam down at me, from newspaper drippings over the
years.
It must be my imagination, but already I can taste the slightly stale, bubble
gum flavoured gloves, the cool hard metal of the examining probe, and the
chink delink. 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
dummy legs have a habit to stick to.
In my mind I see the perfect teeth of my dentist, an ideal advertisement for
his Dynic.
A sudden tapping of high- heeled shoes from the corridor awakens me from
my day dreaming. I look up. My pulse quickens, and my hands sweat. I
swallow the lump in my throat that has accumulated somehow. Blood is
pounding through my head, but even that cannot block out the dreaded
words that I hear next; "Barron, Cissy, Doctor Lush will se you now."
rubber gloves and disinfectant masked with cheaper freshener washes over
me. Chairs are cluttered in the waiting room of the dentists.
Clusters of magazines lie on the scratched wood of the coffee table. Shiny
bright plastic screaming out logos and slogans. A little way forward from
where i stand is a desk.
A smiling receptionist sits there. She seems to have been expecting me
somehow, as she indicates to the couches and chairs.
A few nervous patients are already there. They E to avert their safe from the
closed, threatening doors leading to the dental surgery rooms, where an
ominous high pitched whirring sound is coming from.
Occasionally, I hear a muffled thud, or yell. One by one, the receptionist calls
out the patients name; “Baker, John!" or, "Higgins, Samantha!"
Plastered on the walls are dramatic "Before/ After" photos. They show yellow
teeth, set crookedly in red raw gums becoming brilliantly white and starlight.
The walls are painted a stark, clinical white, however photographs of people
with toothy grins beam down at me, from newspaper drippings over the
years.
It must be my imagination, but already I can taste the slightly stale, bubble
gum flavoured gloves, the cool hard metal of the examining probe, and the
chink delink. 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
dummy legs have a habit to stick to.
In my mind I see the perfect teeth of my dentist, an ideal advertisement for
his Dynic.
A sudden tapping of high- heeled shoes from the corridor awakens me from
my day dreaming. I look up. My pulse quickens, and my hands sweat. I
swallow the lump in my throat that has accumulated somehow. Blood is
pounding through my head, but even that cannot block out the dreaded
words that I hear next; "Barron, Cissy, Doctor Lush will se you now."
