Fiction: Teeth

By Anhedonic

 

Mama kept them in a saucer on the bathroom shelf. The small ones first, the front teeth, starting when Lena was six. She'd bring them down from the bedroom in a piece of tissue and add them to the dish.

By the time Lena was twelve there were sixteen teeth in the dish and they were larger than they'd been. Mama didn't say anything. Lena didn't say anything. You noticed and then you washed your hands and went to school.

The dentist said her adult teeth looked fine. Good spacing. He seemed pleased.

At sixteen Lena had friends over and one of them went to use the bathroom and came back quiet. She didn't ask about it. The saucer was not discussed. Lena was grateful in a way she couldn't have explained.

They were the size of adult teeth by the time she left for college. Mama helped carry boxes to the car. On the last trip Lena went to the bathroom and looked at them. White and square in the dish. She ran the faucet for a while.

Mama called on Sundays. The dish came up once, briefly, when the shelf had to be cleared for a plumber. Mama said she'd put it in the cabinet. Lena said okay. They talked about the plumber's estimate.

At the wedding Lena's cousin used the bathroom and came out and refilled her champagne and didn't say anything. Her husband used it later. He also didn't say anything. Lena thought she loved him for that, though she knew it wasn't exactly that.

Mama got smaller as she got older. The house stayed the same.

At Christmas Lena set the table while Mama cooked. She went to the bathroom and took the dish off the shelf and held it. The teeth were large now. Too large. They were very white. She held the dish for a while under the fluorescent light.

She put it back.

Dinner was ready. She went and sat down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anhedonic is a Spanish writer. His stories linger in discomfort, unspoken tensions, and the strange undercurrents of everyday life. He recently launched Sweet Anhedonia, a home for his weird little tales.