Smile/Teeth: A Personal Recollection

Some months ago I rode the GO Bus sitting next to a young man in his 20s.  He claimed he was a model, on his way into Toronto for an important audition.  He was a very attractive man; this seemed perfectly plausible.  He spoke in a feverishly and unbroken stream-of-consciousness monologue for the entire ride.  If this was a result of nerves, or amphetamines, or just his natural disposition, I will never know.  At one point he told me that he had written a science fiction zombie novel set in a future so technologically advanced that toothpaste brushes your teeth for you.  I asked if he had a website where I could purchase this book.  He repeated the words “smile” and “teeth” several times and, when I sought clarification, he just repeated those words some more.  I would have bought a copy of the book right there and then if only I could have extracted a coherent explanation of how one might do so.  I found my attention drifting as he spoke.  My eyes kept coming back to his mouth.  He had nice teeth.  He had a nice smile.  I wished him luck on the audition and we parted ways.

It was almost a year before I saw this man again.  Recently I was alone on a hiking trail in the woods and he passed me on a fixed gear bicycle.  He rode straight on, deftly maneuvering the bike through snow and mud, until he hit the water’s edge.  And then he hopped off, hoisted the bike over his shoulder, and set out walking across the frozen lake.  For a while, I watched him go.  He looked so beautiful out there, in the empty expanse of the lake, buffeted by wind and snow.  

I walked home alone in the cold.  

I didn’t stay long enough to see if he turned back, if made it to the other side, if the ice held his weight.