Friend of Mine – She speaks in smiles that avoid molars.
She clocks in early and out late.
Wipes tables with one hand, answers phones with the other.
Takes orders. Stocks shelves. Calms customers.
Raises her kid between shifts.
She does everything right.
Except get paid enough to fix the pain in her mouth.
It started with a twinge.
Then a throb.
Now, it’s a dull roar that hums beneath every sentence.
She avoids cold water.
Chews only on the right.
And when she laughs, it’s careful—
just the front teeth.
A cavity, they said.
Easily filled. $387.
But “easy” is a word for people who don’t count groceries by the ounce.
Who’ve never torn open condiment packets to avoid buying ketchup.
Who haven’t skipped Advil to save $7.99.
So she waits.
Until payday.
Until tax season.
Until it gets worse enough for the ER—
Where they’ll pull the tooth instead.
Because extraction is cheaper than preservation.
She works three jobs.
But has to weigh pain against power bills.
She has insurance, technically.
It just doesn’t cover teeth.
Apparently mouths are cosmetic
unless you stop talking.
She’s funny.
Bright.
Beloved.
But she covers her face when she laughs now.
Hides her decay behind dimples.
This is survival.
Not the kind you brag about.
The kind you whisper about through clenched jaws.
The kind where broken molars
become metaphors
for a country rotting from the inside out.
