“Reminder” by Elizabeth Mayer (Fiction ’19)

Reminder

At the dentist, the hygienist, with her purple nitrile gloves and voice like Tree Trunks, runs her finger along the inside of your cheek, across your gumline, palpates the underside of your tongue. She shows you how to massage the space between your teeth with a little rubber pick, says she does it herself while lying in bed, tells you your teeth are a lovely color. All day you run your tongue along the planes of your polished teeth, taste the edge of your lips where she dabbed the toothpaste with such care. At home, no one asks where you have been, so you do not say, but you hold the feeling of the hygienist’s fingers in your mouth a day and a night, three days, a week: as long as you can.