My Dentist

If I were to make a list of the five reasons why I wouldn't leave this city  I'd probably include my dentist in it.

You see, I am the hugest sissy I know when it comes to needles and medical procedures, yet I trust my dentist enough to have three wisdom teeth removed in a single afternoon. But aside from being great at understanding my pain threshold, I believe what has me looking forward to my semestral checkups are the unexpected, small, life lessons I learn through him with every visit.

He's a stern-looking man in his early fifties who has a pair of jolly eyes hiding behind his very stereotypical silver-rimmed glasses. If I were to draw a portrait of him I'd trace a picture of Dwight Schrute over that of Liam Neeson.

Samuel's Hats

Of the many pieces of advice that my dad gives me this is one that I don't follow:

"Don't speak to strangers."

I am offended and embarrassed everytime my dad says this to me- for I know he means don't get friendly with men with whom you'll potentially fall in love with and lose your focus on making a lot of money. 'Dad, I'm sorry to say that I will date men while still working on my career, but that doesn't mean I'm a fool that falls in love with whoever I meet in the streets- your daughter here has standards, you know.' 

So after going through a couple torturous chats and promises ending in me answering, "yes, dad I promise I won't talk to strangers", I bought a ticket in the bus terminal, got on bus number 4, checked my seat number on my ticket which was next to a skinny, old, bald man who had his hands wrapped around a backpack that matched his shoes.

The Case of Don Ramon

First Name: Not "Don", but Ramon; the "Don" before Ramon stands for "Mister" (synonym of señor) in Spanish.

Age: Mid-fifties

Signature traits: Long boney limbs, gray eyes, stiff straight hair that looks like burnt matches and a raspy voice similar to that of a witch stirring a cauldron.

I first met Don Ramon five years ago when he entered the ladies' restroom on the thirteenth floor. He was wearing a cobalt blue onesie, and holding a bucket and a mop.

Etymophilia

In recent years I've developed a rather odd inclination: a liking for words.

I've always liked reading, however around the time I reached my thirties reading has become not anymore an act of hunger for a story but more like a yearning to excavate for gems that are tucked away in between the lines...

Like stumbling upon dabs and specks of poetry within a horror novel:

"Tonight's moon was so bright that it had embarrassed all but the brightest stars into invisibility." (The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, Stephen King)