I think about the man I met on the street.

Toothless, he smiled still, through the popped collar of his trench and chapped lips stuck inside dry gums. He was nice to me at the bus stop, sat two abreast chilling on the dead plastic and inside the bell jar to wait for the number 10.

“I’m sorry,” He began his introduction with an gingerly apology, palms grouted in black grime as he later them before me in good faith, “You have the most beautiful teeth.”

He needn’t give a name, and his apology was meant not to startle. I smiled to him so he could see them better, straight and square, too big to see the pink of my gums behind full lips. He smiled back to show me his gums.

I smiled to show my teeth, he smiled back to show me that he wouldn’t hold it against me.