Open Wide
"She hates the dentist—always has. He's the new Somali dentist at her practice—gentle, funny, making her actually forget she's terrified. When he asks if she wants to get coffee after her appointment, she realizes cavities aren't the only thing he's filling."
I've been avoiding this appointment for two years.
Dental anxiety. Real, diagnosed, the kind that makes me cry in waiting rooms.
"Deep breaths." The new dentist—young, Somali, unexpectedly handsome—rolls his chair closer. "I'm Abdi. We're going to take this slowly."
"Slowly?"
"As slowly as you need." He smiles. "I hate the dentist too."
"You ARE the dentist."
"Doesn't mean I like it."
He's patient.
Explains everything before he does it. Stops when I tense up. Makes jokes that are terrible but somehow work.
"You have a cavity," he says finally.
"Great. Wonderful. Perfect."
"It's small. We can fix it." He removes his gloves. "But first—would you want to get coffee?"
"What?"
"You've been gripping that armrest for forty-five minutes. You need to decompress." He shrugs. "And I know a good place."
Coffee becomes lunch.
Lunch becomes walking around the park. He's nothing like I expected—warm, self-deprecating, nothing like the intimidating dentists of my nightmares.
"Why dentistry?" I ask.
"Because teeth are fixable." He looks at me. "I like fixing things. Making people feel better about something they dread."
"You made me feel better."
"That was the coffee."
"That was you."
We date between appointments.
He fills my cavities and my calendar. The practice becomes my favorite place in London.
"This is unprofessional," I point out.
"This is perfect." He kisses me after my six-month checkup. "Dating your dentist is very efficient."
"Is that your selling point?"
"My selling point is that I already know your worst fears and I'm still here."
"Abdi—"
We're in his flat now. No dental chairs, no anxiety—just us.
"You're beautiful—"
"You've only seen me terrified and reclined."
"And you were beautiful then too." He pushes into me. "You're beautiful always."
We come together.
In a bed instead of a dental chair. Which is an improvement.
"Next appointment is in six months," he says afterward.
"Maybe sooner."
"You WANT to come to the dentist?"
"I want to see you." I pull him closer. "The dental work is just a bonus."
He proposes during a checkup.
Down on one knee with a ring and his mask still on.
"This is weird," I say.
"This is perfect." He pulls down the mask. "Marry me?"
"In your dental office?"
"Where else would I propose?" He grins. "This is where I fell for you."
I say yes.
And my teeth have never been better.