Morning at the Dentist’s, by Amy Friedman

I was miserable. Three hours! That damned whining, grating drill, all that water laced with rotted tooth enamel running down my throat, and that stinking gutta-percha! Lord, I hate root canals.
And I’m still in my damned bib.
“Ms. Carver?” peeped a high voice behind me. “Yes!” I snapped. A tiny little waif in a lab coat, clutching a file folder, came into view. “Dr. Pelletier says make an appointment for next week.”
“He’s not finished?” I sputtered.
“Well, you do have an infection …” she peeped.
That dentist’s gonna get a piece of my mind. Right down his root.


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