Dating with dentures
Lindsay—a girl I had met online—told me that there was a new restaurant downtown that she had wanted to try. “But I don’t think they’ll fall out.” “Right,” I said, nodding. “And I really wasn’t judging you for your dentures.” She closed the door on me, just as I was saying “I’ll call you.” For a minute, I just sat there.
We agreed to meet there at seven on Friday night, for some good food and (hopefully) good conversation. Then I laughed, drove to CVS, and brought some extra-strength mouthwash.
At one point, we rotated our heads, our lips still locked, adjusting our angle. Needless to say, this had never happened to me before.
She put her hand on my hand, which was sitting on the clutch. “Sorry, it’s just–,” “No, it’s fine,” Lindsay said. I couldn’t even see the empty space, which made me feel, irrationally, a little bit better. “Let’s get back to our previously scheduled activities.” She leaned forward again.
I looked up and we both leaned forward at the same time. “I guess that bread was harder than we thought,” I said, a little uncomfortably. I couldn’t help glancing down at the hand that was holding her tooth.
Fortunately, while the food didn’t live up to expectations, the conversation blew our expectations out of the water.
In fact, I think that the food actually helped our date along.
Wherever there might have been a lull in the conversation, or an awkward pause, Lindsay or I could interject comments about how salty the rice was, or how chewy the chicken was, or how the bread was so hard and stale that it literally hurt to bite it.
Because I had been well trained by my last girlfriend, I refrained from initiating any tongue action. ” It clearly took Lindsay a second to realize what I was talking about. ” “No, yeah, I’ m fine,” she said, still covering her mouth. “It’s just a tooth.” “It just–,” “It’s not even a real tooth,” she added.
It was about five minutes in when Lindsay decided to add in a little French twist, and I was happy to follow suit. Then she moved her tongue in her (now closed) mouth, and I saw a flicker or realization in her eyes. “Yeah, that was my tooth.” As gracefully as anyone could, she brought her hand to her mouth and spit out her tooth into it so I couldn’t see. “It must have been the bread.” “Your tooth just came out,” I said.
Lindsay lived across town, and I offered to drive her home in my car, mostly because I wasn’t ready for our date to end. The next good sign came when we arrived at her house. See.” She pulled her hand away from her mouth and smiled.
She lingered in the car, making up excuses to keep the conversation going, thanking me for going with her to that horrible restaurant. There was none of the blood that would usually accompany a tooth loss. ” “No, it’s fine,” she said, with a small smile, moving forward.
It was a good kiss, the slow building kind that grew deeper and deeper with each minute.