last? How long before the lad tires of the advice and shelves of encyclopedias? Maybe the lad is already gone and the lines beneath Dr mason’s eyes are evidence of this. No one looks forward to going home to an empty house, I can tell you that. Dinner for one, TV, and then bed. Perhaps the doctor himself ended the relationship, preemptively, knowing it would lead nowhere or possibly fearing repercussions if it was found he was seeing a patient. The spectre of professional disgrace forced him to second guess his romantic folly, and brought home to him the fact that he was now largely consigned to a life alone. Why does he keep the magazines? The poor doctor can’t bring himself to clear the coffee table, to dispose of the glossy stack and move on. Or else he’s forgotten about the table—how often does a dentist visit his own waiting room anyway?--and someday while looking for something - misplaced keys, a file - he’ll wander in there on the off-chance and stop dead at the sight of the magazines. The cars, the skidding bikes, the brawn of marathon runners, the whole ladish flare that made up this kid who stepped into his life and left him with nothing but twenty-something magazines of nonsense. Oh, the things that cross your mind when you are at the mercy of Dr Mason. When all you can hear is the sound of the drill and all you can taste is the dust of your own teeth, the good doctor stooping overhead, his soft breathing audible through his face mask, his eyes focused on the darkest reaches of your mouth, the weight of his hand on your bottom lip, the tip of his pinky resting on your tongue. Saliva. Blood.
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