Doreen forces thick, unwaxed floss between your molars, between your bicuspids and your canines. She is always honest, no messing around, and she needs you to hear this: even two, three times a day, brushing is not enough. There’s inflammation, Doreen says. The floss slices between your two front teeth, and the pain is electric, sharp to your core. You can fix this, Doreen says, but you have to be consistent. Eyes shut behind yellow-tinted safety goggles, you grunt in assent. The floss comes down again, and a section of gum peels away from a tooth. Nice boots, says Doreen. The floss catches behind an old crown placed by an old dentist, and imagining that it will pop right off, fall against your tongue and tumble down your throat, you make a small, concerned noise. Doreen exhales behind her surgical mask. Every night, she says, even if it hurts. You want to tell her how you used to be so good: pre-rinse, whitening toothpaste, fluoride sluiced between your teeth and under your tongue. You read once that the best way to keep from snacking at night is to brush your teeth right after dinner. A clean mouth feels so good, you’ll think twice before ruining it. And you do, you always think at least twice, consistently, but even still: you ruin things. Manicures and photographs, birthday cakes and carpets. Countless opportunities, second chances first through last. Doreen hums, satisfied, and drops the reddened floss on the dental tray. She wants to know, any questions? You swirl water from the plastic cup, you spit. You want to know, can it be possible, please, for the important things to not hurt? But you say, no, thank you. Blood against your tongue, blood between your teeth. Every night, Doreen reminds you. Every night, you agree.

Carol M. Quinn’s fiction has recently appeared in Five on the Fifth, Grist, The Tusculum Review, and others. She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and currently lives in New York with her family.