Every time she passed through the living room, Sonya cracked the front door to check the mail, letting in a blast of chill air. She had 30 resumes out there, and so far, no bites.
The mailman didn't come until 4:30, after she'd looked a dozen times. He dawdled down the block, gossiping with a neighbor pushing a blanketed stroller. Sonya peed, poured a Coke, read her email—killing time.
She waited until the blue-grey uniform was two doors past, dodging conversation. The only personal mail was a postcard from Berger Dental, reminding her of last week's cleaning. Her insurance had lapsed and she'd skipped it.
Sonya recalled Berger's hygienist, a stern blond from Poland with white, but crooked teeth. Danuta. Her accent made Sonya worry that her credentials weren't legit. But did it matter, so long as her teeth got clean?
And now, with zilch in the bank, Sonya's teeth weren't, or didn't gleam like a TV smile. She flooded the bathroom with lights: the overhead, the mirror, and the shower. Was that plaque? She flossed, then brushed, then flossed again until her saliva was streaked red.
She sloshed Listerine around her mouth, feeling the sting spread.
Sonya leaned closer, just inches from the mirror, tasting blood and mint. Maybe she would floss again.
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