The evidence painted on her face

The evidence was painted on her face: she had been to the state fair thoroughfare. Like me, Delilah was impatient with expressions of dental diagnosis. Grope-session orthodontists thought she was high on fumes (nitrous), so patted her up and down. The apparatus she presented through her altogether suggestive thigh-high stockings had them kind of chemically despondent, as well as her dental illness.

It added up. Biased docs think information can be disposable, like the latex gloves they tossed her direction. She woke up laughing, disrobed, dental bills posted. “A high-hat antichlor disorder,” dentists talked, rewinding Delilah’s mind to a Thanksgiving party, eating the glazed ham of her dreams and wondering what dental damage was impending. Oh, she had so many fresh-ground peppercorns. She was so full of cured meat that when Mom began concocting her spiced rum cocktails, she belched, “No, thanks.”

Thanksgiving food haunted her delicate molars. “I propose fillings as soon as possible,” her intern dental assistant proposed. Stability, sure, but what would the teeth painted on her face think?*







*See the beginning. She’d been face-painted at the state fair, as I mentioned before. It was teeth on her face, painted in green on her cheek, outside where the regular teeth would sit.