I’m riding the subway and my heart is cracked open in that subtle, expansive place where my last heartbreak is far behind me and the next love has not yet arrived.
During the ride I touched a man’s arm, who was wearing headphones, to ask without words if he may please move to unblock the seat I’d like to take. He couldn’t stop staring little friendly glances at me after. I was careful not to meet his gaze, but gently received every look: these nonverbal cues that indicated that, yes, we had noticed one another and, yes, we had made contact. Even one touch can change a whole person’s consciousness.
I exit the car and see an MTA worker in an orange vest standing by a wall, rocking gently back and forth. A giant man, doing this sweet baby gesture. I find it to be so tender, him and all the other adults populating this subway station who I feel as though I can look inside of to see that they were all once fragile, trusting children. X-ray vision of walking Russian nesting dolls, with their infant selves at the center.
Two sets of stairs and an escalator ride later and the sun is blaring in my face. I reach into my bag to put on sunglasses that have been smudged and blurry for weeks and which I still somehow haven’t cleaned. I am comfortable staying in mess, in inconvenience, a lot longer than I’d like to admit. In lack of clarity.
I’m approaching Central Park and remember I had a dream this week that I was watching horseback riders riding in a ring there, and how I told one of the riders’ moms how I used to be a rider myself. In my dream remembering, I walk past my dentist’s office, but it doesn’t matter; I’m still early.
Like a lot of “people with substance use issues”, I have struggled with caring for my teeth. Funny how one of the first things we obscure is that which we use to smile at the world. I use the bathroom and think how many times I’ve used drugs in this bathroom before, and countless ones all over the city. Though not today.
I’m laid back in the chair now, with the dental hygienist assessing me. She pokes around at my gums, announcing, “we’ll have to use a numbing agent, they’re really sensitive and inflamed,” and thus conveys a major plot-line of my entire existence: being so sensitive and raw, and using numbing agents to get through things.
The major decision of the visit is that I will get Invisalign again. It feels important to straighten things out right now. The hygienist concludes our time together by providing me with a demonstration of how to properly brush one’s teeth, advising me to get an Oral B electric toothbrush because the bristle heads are smaller, and make it easier to clean the insides of one’s teeth in addition to the outsides. I am struck by the novelty of this technique. I’ve always put much more effort into making what’s on the outside appear good; I have been much less adept at cleaning and caring for what’s on the inside. I leave the office with the gummy feeling of Flouride still on both sides of my teeth.
The day goes on and I talk to my business partner (who is helpful), my therapist (who is concerned), a true friend (who is encouraging), and a colleague (who is pleasantly surface-level and upbeat). I do and undo the things I need to, using my computer. Exiting the cafe I’ve been working in, I notice an eyewear store I’ve never seen before. I decide to go in.
The two staff-members behind the desk are Lower East Side gorgeous and, to my surprise, friendly. When one asks, “What’ve you been up to today?” a beat passes and I ask, “Me?”, figuring she may have been talking to her coworker. She says, “Yes you,” and I tell her about the dentist. Both affirm the importance of self care “especially in times like this” with total seriousness and presence. After trying on a few different pairs of sunglasses, I notice a cleaning cloth lying suggestively on the front desk. I pull out my own smudged sunglasses I’d been wearing all day, and begin wiping.