Gamine was suspicious of teeth whitening, privately imagining the bleaching would erase the necessary stains of personality. She explained this to the Angel who swivelled on an office chair at the foot of her bed. The Angel explained, this wouldn’t be a problem as Gamine didn’t have any teeth, then took a big spin. Gamine worried aloud: veneers would be worse, grinding away the surface of teeth, taking with it the memory of jokes. Again, the Angel explained– But you don’t have any teeth to veneer– Gamine lifted her hand to her mouth and bit onto her fingers with a gummy jaw.

When Gamine woke, coughed, and found half a tooth in her hand she knew there would be a cost. Her mother agreed it was too early in life to add this much character to her flimsy face. In her time of need, dentists were everywhere. Every shopfront suddenly trapped between a crude Eiffel Tower of dentists. The establishments above and below were invariably pierced with a clinical sign illustrating dentist and patient in a varied  kama sutra of positions. Most were private establishments camouflaged in the forgiving sky blue of the NHS, like lads dressed in nuns’ habits on halloween. Gamine examined her reflection in a Cafe Nero. Beside her gaping face, was a sign tacked to the window, it directed her upstairs– this establishment was both taking new patients and making dental dreams come true (daily). She ascended the stairs. 

When the receptionist on the desk found her an appointment that very same afternoon everyone pulled such enormous shocked faces that Gamine said she’d take it! It must be fate, the receptionist pondered, handing over a three-page-long form and a dead biro.

Gamine’s heart dropped when she saw the chandelier. The glass glistened and knocked together with the bluster of air con. The shards of glass were not unlike teeth. There were two women shivering behind a great big iceberg of white marble. The woman on the left had a sharp, dark bob that ringed her ears, not quite touching, as if scared of the consequences. The other had hair so blonde it threatened to be pink with rosy acne to match. They checked her in and offered her a biscuit. The dark haired woman made a note when she took one. Gamine was careful not to keep any damp crumbs behind in her gums. Coming-to from the initial intoxication of the air freshener, she noted the skirting board was clean and that the framed photos contained glass not perspex. When her name was called she stumbled as if being led to the gallows, explaining to the blonde she had been on holiday recently, but that it had been a last minute very cheap flight, cheaper even than a train home. She flashed her lack of tan for good measure.

She should call him Al, the dentist insisted. He greeted her with open steroidey arms. He asked after her Mom and Gamine explained that retirement was going well. The bubble burst somewhat when he probed at her Mother’s dental history. Having acknowledged their estrangement, Al became productive, he lowered her head with care. Her tits disappeared on either side of her. Open wide!

Al investigated her mouth with a squeaky pink finger. Gamine’s ill judged lip gloss rimmed his forefinger. He asked inquisitive questions– made rhetorical by his fingers– about what she thought the meaning of life was. He spoke in a sort of morse code to the nurse who typed the details into her phone. His voice was unwavering in its chirpy tone and Gamine felt, by proxy, he accepted her for what she was, that he forgave her for a childhood of sweets and the adult equivalent. For those 12 minutes she totally forgot about her chipped tooth, about how much it was worth and how much she was worth, but thought instead, for the first time in a long time, of love. 

If they wanted to see each other again, they’d be talking around The Thousand Pound Mark. Gamine had never talked around The Thousand Pound Mark with anyone, about anything– much less teeth. A Thousand Pounds! She repeated back to him. The mouth opener instrument was still in place and so this came out as a Ha Hahaha Has. Al must have felt she was doubting his integrity because his face rebelled against its smiley filler and went quite neutral. There were serious structural problems with her teeth, bad habits that would be difficult to fix. It would be a long and expensive process to correct, but with his help it would be possible. He gave her his Instagram, the feed was full of teeth shuffled with photos of women in bikinis, who weren’t smiling but assumingly had teeth. If she had any questions, she could always find him here. 

Gamine’s questions felt too big for Instagram. They were about intimacy, about art and fingers and wages and possibly Invisalign? The Angels on reception will be able to help you with that. Gamine worried if she paid Around the Thousand Pound Mark for half a tooth she might never again find reason to smile. The Angels pointed, synchronised, towards a card machine, which would let us all forget this whole thing had happened. It can be a can of worms, the spotty one sympathised.

But half way down the road the receipt popped up: £27.40 to Existential Dental. Worry manifested in her back left molar, panic drained the saliva from her tongue. The Angel’s lowcut tops; their desperate eyes. Should she have rounded up, does one tip at the dentist?