The Dentist

I completed my sixth and greatest Sonata four months ago. It will be performed by Vienna’s most regarded pianist, and I look forward to that with infallible joy. What inspires me is a question I have been asked repeatedly, but the truth could lay my success open to great perils. So I will leave the truth enamelled to assumption.  And tell only you.

I am dentist by profession, but a composer by default.

I discovered the slenderness of her neck as her head tilted back, her alabaster skin brought out a dewy pinkness in her lips, as they open from bud to bloom. The music followed. Every tooth had a letter assigned to it, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. Letter G landed soulfully on her molar, her canine was distinctly F sharp, and the piece ended exquisitely on high C, upper incisor.

I have saved a few select casts from the most instrumental mouths. Placing them on my baroque mantelpiece and depending on my company they pass as contemporary art. Often, upon catching sight of my ornamental teeth the tips of my fingers tingle, and arch up eagerly to play the teeth like the keys of a piano. Of late Debussy has been thoroughly enjoyed.

One of my most well received Sonatas came from a set of short, tightly screwed teeth. They weren’t by any means lacquered with a Hollywood gleam, but their gritty strength made way for an effective staccato.

Braces have the power to change the melody of the mouth; they cause a transformation from the disjointed to the sublime.