I was at the dentist’s office today. I’ve been seeing the same “gal” as my Grandmother would say, for years. And each time I am struck by the same problem. We’re trying to carry on a conversation as if she’s painting my toe nails. She asks a question and I “arsrwflaw—-” back and then she pulls the instrument out of my mouth, I thrust my tongue forward and try to get some saliva, so I don’t choke on my own dry throat and reply. And then she digs on back into my gumline. How did I know I needed a menopause patch? When does my son finish school? How’s Bryan doing? Does he still like teaching? In. Out. In. Out. And then there’s this long silence and she really settles into her work, and I kind of zone out and start thinking about how I haven’t heard that Carole King “Jazzman” song that’s playing in, like, forever, and wonder why they can’t hook us up with headphones and music of our choice. Then I wonder if certain radio stations actually market to dentist chairs? And are there any cool black dentists who are playing hip hop? And I’m thinking all this and she’s working in my mouth and she says, “Now your husband, Bryan. He has really great teeth, doesn’t he?”