Plaque

"Talking to you," she said, "is like flossing my teeth. The more I do it, the less it bleeds."

"Thank you?" I said.

"And I know if I got to the doctor with a mouthful of blood that it's been too long."

"Right."

"But as long as I keep flossing, talking, my gums will be OK. I'll be OK."

"OK," I said.

"OK," and she. I could see her tongue running behind her lips, over her teeth, feeling the imaginary places where I'd gotten stuck. Coming out every time she spoke. Bits of me forgotten, inside her, left to rot.