[cont.]
After the x-rays were developed, the dentist found one filling which needed immediate work. Unlike the last two cracked fillings, any repairs here could only be temporary, she was told. A crown would be better. Look at the tiny cracks radiating downward. See this one and this one next to it. She really wasn’t as fascinated with her teeth as the dentist was. And the dentist liked to talk about teeth and the care of teeth and the life span of each type of filling. Gold, porcelain, amalgam, dental composites, resin-reinforced glass isonomers. This was exactly how her husband had felt about her discussions of art – completely and utterly uninterested.
Odessa really hated going to the dentist. She chose this dentist because LACMA was a block away and she would treat herself to an hour of touring the museum after escaping from here. She believed in the power of rewarding good behavior.
With clean teeth and an appointment for a new crown, she walked out into the blindingly bright sunshine and literally ran into a man.
She started to apologize and then was struck speechless. She hadn’t seen him in a month of Sundays and here he was, Lawrence Cotter, looking ten, even fifteen, years younger than the last time she saw him, now sporting solid dark hair. The silver sideburns, the sags, the droop under the chin, the extra weight – all gone. He was dressed in a t-shirt with a skull on it over sagging blue jeans and a baseball cap on backwards. He even had on lime green running shoes not fully tied. She started laughing. Those running shoes were the perfect metaphor for a man running away from aging.
“Do you want to let me in on the joke?”
“I’m sorry, Lawrence. I shouldn’t laugh at you, but seriously, what are you aiming to attract? Twelve year olds?”
He was offended. She didn’t blame him for being offended but she couldn’t stop laughing. She waved goodbye and only half way down the block did she get control of herself. When she turned around at the corner, he was still standing in front of the dentist’s office staring at her, his dark hair hovering over his trim body. She started laughing again. Sixty year old men and their follies were better than nitrous oxide. It was the best laugh she’d had since Dennis died. Since he discovered the cancer. “Oh, damn,” she thought, “now I’m fixing to cry.”
Return on Friday for the next chapters of Just Like Suicide.
