It has been three hours and eight minutes since my lunch break. The digital clock on my computer screen seems to be frozen. The round, white clock on the wall laughs at me as the second hand moves to the next notch at an alarmingly slow rate. I can feel each tick pound in my chest. My ears ring with each movement. The room is still and my cubicle neighbors are unaware of my lack of comfort. They continue to answer calls and take information, but I can only focus on the time and this annoying consciousness in my mouth. Nothing else matters to me. I will be free of this urge at five o'clock, but that's a lifetime away. I can almost visualize myself walking outside to get into my car and turning towards the ice plant-covered bank before getting in. My mouth is wet with warm, flavorless saliva and I need to get rid of this feeling.
* * * *
The morning breeze feels invigorating on my face. The trees seem to be dancing with the wind as they sway back and forth. The paved trail through the green landscape is still damp from last night's rain fall. My dog pulls with all of his might at his leash as a squirrel crosses our path. I smile as I hold the leather tighter in my hand and sturdy my stance against his pull. With every inhale that my dog takes, I can hear a nearby brook's water rush over smoothed pebbles. A bird whistles in the distance. The morning's sun stares across the horizon and begins its task of warming the cold, waking earth. The only thing that could make this moment better is to expunge myself of this nagging feeling in my mouth and sinuses.
* * * *
My batting gloves stretch over my knuckles as I grip the handle of the bat. Two outs. I step into the batter's box with my right hand extended to the umpire to request a moment to settle in. I take the bat in my left hand and distance myself from the plate with a tap of the barrel at the exact center point. Runner on first. My feet know what to do. My right foot claws into the soft earth while my left foot taps in search of the perfect location to settle in. My body's weight is slightly off center. My right knee supports a little more than my left. Top of the fifth. When I've settled in, I grip the bat above my left hand with my right and look towards the mound. The score is tied. The home team's pitcher glares over his glove covering his face. He shakes off a sign from his catcher as I work my tongue around the inside of my mouth. I extract the dark, mouthwatering liquid from the ball in my cheek. With my tongue, I swish the fluid around the crevices of my mouth before pursing my lips.
* * * *
The white light is directly over my face as I stare towards the ceiling. The back of my neck is cold from a metal chain that holds a blue tissue across my chest. A high-pitched drill sounds in the next room. Kenny G whales on his soprano saxophone. A man wearing protective glasses and a mouth guard reaches up with his latex gloved hand to adjust the piercing white light that I have been staring into. "One more," he says as he dips his rubber-headed drill into a dark mixture that is kept on a ring which he wears on his left hand. He leans in close, tells me to look in his direction, inserts the tool into my mouth, turns it on and applies the crystallized mixture to my back molar. When he's done, he hands me a waxed paper Dixie cup of water and gives me permission to turn to the tiny porcelain sink on my left and rinse. The cool liquid rushes from one side of my mouth to the other and collects remnants of peppermint-flavored fluoride in its wake. I lean over the sink and aim for the small drain. Other than brushing my teeth at home or vomiting, I am the only one that has any reason to spit.
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