At the dentist’s reception desk there is a bowl of candy. “Is this job security candy” i say, and that receptionist says “What” and i say “I have a 3:15 appointment for last name Harvey.” In a corner of the hexagon of orange light which lights my open mouth the hygienist scrapes into, i see my mouth reflected. At first i only see her blue gloves but the longer i look the more i see, my lip fat with novocaine and spit, i look into the hygienist’s eyes that look onto my plaque. i think of 60,000 years of human existence and the dentist’s technology that is just a metal scythe scraping against dentite. i would be bad under torture, i would tell every secret, i think. But already i tell every secret, i think. Does that mean everything is torture already, i think. In response to my wincing and whimpering the hygienist says “Is it from pain or from pressure?” What a beautiful and always-relevant question, i think. “It’s from pain but it’s okay,” i say. She resumes though she never stopped.