We stare at each other across the years of mutually-unfulfilled expectations.
“I have to go back to London tomorrow, Dad.”
He doesn’t respond, momentarily distracted by a pretty nurse scurrying past.
“Is there anything you need before I leave? Anything at all?”
He presses his shiny knuckles thoughtfully to his mouth, before leaning towards me in conspiratorial fashion.
Grasping his outstretched hand, I’m conscious that this may be the defining moment of our lengthy antagonistic history.
“You couldn’t give these a rinse for me, could you?”
Seething, but clutching his dentures in my hand, I hurry towards the bathroom.
Friday Fictioneers out once again.If you’re wondering how I got here, well I saw those wooden piano keys and they reminded me of wooden teeth which, though it hardly bears thinking about, were the precursor of the modern denture. Flashing a perfect smile, as ever, Rochelle leads the