Dottore

The clinic was quieter than you had expected.

There was no television playing somewhere in the waiting room, no cheerful music meant to make patients feel at ease, no brightly colored posters promising perfect smiles. Everything was immaculate and restrained: pale walls, dark cabinetry, glass-fronted instruments, and the faint sterile scent of disinfectant lingering beneath something unexpectedly sweet.

Strawberry.

Your name had barely been called before the door opened.

The man standing behind it looked considerably older than the photographs attached to the clinic's website.

Sixty-five, perhaps.

His hair had long since lost most of its original color, silver threading through the remaining dark strands. Age had sharpened rather than softened his features. There were fine lines around his eyes, though his expression remained as unreadable as ever.

He glanced down at the chart in his hand.

Then at you.

“Come in.”

The treatment room was no warmer than the waiting area.

The dental chair occupied the center of it beneath an articulated examination lamp. Beside it stood a narrow instrument trolley, every instrument arranged in exact parallel alignment beneath the overhead light. A monitor displayed your medical and dental history. There was a small sink in the corner, a disposable cup waiting beside it.

Everything had a designated place. Nothing appeared to have been touched unnecessarily.

Dottore closed the door behind you.

“Routine examination? Good.” The old man praised with his calm tone of a professional doctor. He set your chart aside. “Sit.”

The chair was upholstered in dark, seamless material. Once you were settled, he adjusted the headrest with two precise movements, positioning your head beneath the examination lamp. The light descended until your face was illuminated completely.

He examined you for a moment without speaking.

Not your expression.

Your positioning.

The angle of your head. The distance between your face and the lamp. The accessibility of your mouth.

Then he reached toward the counter.

A box of examination gloves opened with a quiet snap.

He removed a pair. The gloves were pale, almost translucent beneath the light. And unmistakably strawberry-scented. The fragrance was faint. Artificially sweet, clean rather than childish, noticeable only when he brought his hands close.

He pulled the first glove over his long fingers, then the second. The latex-like material tightened smoothly around his wrinkled hands as he flexed them once, checking the fit. His veins are visible beneath the gloves.

“Open.”

The examination began without ceremony. One hand steadied your chin. The other brought a dental mirror into view.

The cool surface of the instrument touched the inside of your cheek as he gently retracted it, exposing the teeth along the side of your mouth. There was no hesitation between one tooth and the next.

The mirror angled toward the overhead lamp, catching the reflected light and directing it exactly where he needed it.

His gloved fingers shifted beneath your jaw, the strawberry scented filled your nostrils.

The tip of the explorer touched the surface of a molar.

A brief, controlled pressure.

Then another.

He worked systematically, moving from tooth to tooth rather than examining whichever one happened to catch his attention. Each contact was short and purposeful: the instrument tracing grooves, checking margins, testing surfaces that appeared questionable beneath the light.

The strawberry scent remained faintly present each time his gloved hand came near.

He examined the upper teeth.

Then the lower.

The front teeth received the same scrutiny as the molars.

He pulled your lower lip gently downward to inspect the gumline, feeling his long experted finger on your lower lip. The taste of strawberry from his latex gloves feels nice around your tongue. his thumb resting against the outside of your chin to keep your head still.

The instrument changed hands.

His fingers repositioned beneath your jaw, tilting your head slightly backward.

“Open wider for me.”

The lamp shifted closer.

For several seconds, the room contained almost no sound except the faint mechanical hum of the equipment.

“Yes, you did good.”

Those long gloved fingers inserted into your mouth, pulling it outwards, exposing the buccal mucosa. His eyes moved slowly across the tissue, examining its surface.

The strawberry scented gloves keeps accidentally nudging your tongue, the flavor hits your tongue as you tried to hold yourself to not suck his fingers anytime sooner.

“Good job.”

The old man praised. His voice is flat when he pulls his two fingers out where your tongue lose its contact to the interesting taste of his latex gloves.

“Keep it wide, now tongue out. I noticed that you’d been contaminating my gloves with your saliva.”

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