My dentist can’t tell the difference between the dark, empty spaces inside my teeth and something rotten. I can see them in the mirror, he says, fifteen places the enamel has worn away in these last months, eaten by something inside me he doesn’t understand. He believes we can fill one hole at a time, that I have probably been drinking too much bottled water.
I used to think my teeth were transparent and I was, too, just how we looked when we smiled.
He asks if I grind my teeth, and sees me clearly now. The last of my enamel wore away while I was trying to convince him I needed veneers.
Chelsea Ruxer’s work has appeared in Hermeneutic Chaos, 5×5, and others. One of her short pieces was nominated for 2016’s Best of the Net.
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