I had this throbbing pain in my tooth. So intense it was nearly impossible to sleep. I could feel something stuck there. Right under the gum. In the back. I sprayed it with the waterpik. Gargled, swished, mouthwashed. I flossed obsessively. I dug in with a toothpick. I imagined it was unlike the feeling of having a phantom limb. This thing stuck there but not there.

I’m in the dentist chair on Park Avenue. “Ah ha!” the dental hygienist screams. She pulls out a piece of dental floss.

“Now you know that I’m not lying when I say I floss,” I chuckle. She continues to clean my teeth, one by one. Polishing. Asking me to spit. I’m vulnerable and helpless, wearing this bloody paper bib. Having to do all of these sit ups to get to the miniature sink to spit. I’m in the chair doing my ab work out, the dental hygienist has her back to the door, I’m facing out, looking in the hallway of the dental office.

“He touched me! He fucking touched me!” A man is screaming. Filled with rage. A man dressed in blue scrubs is running back and forth like a squirrel. I see him through the doorway. “He touched me! I’m going to report you to the ADA! I have worked in Singapore! In London! I have never been so…”

The dental hygienist is apologizing. “Stupid,” she whispers under her breath. I see the H.R. person come out. Gathering the keys. Removing the white coat. The man leaves. The other dentist who grabbed that one’s dick at 11am on a Thursday comes out. He stares at me with eyes so black and lightless, it reminds me of a Great White Shark, when their eyes roll back into their head, just before they attack their prey.

As I’m coming out of the chair, my dental hygienist says “don’t forget to floss!” She hands me the used bloody plastic toothbrush in a plastic bag. And once again I’m reminded. Every day in New York, you come home with a story.