1. Harold
My then-boyfriend, now-husband. I asked him if it was okay to use the expired teeth whitening strips from our bathroom cupboard. He took the dented cardboard box into his calloused hands and squinted at the expiration date. “05 04 16,” he read aloud. “They’re less than a year old, you’ll be fine,” he declared, “those dates are just to force scaredy-cat customers to buy new. It’s a capitalistic ploy.” But the strips burned five minutes after I put them on, and as I checked the packaging for common side effects, the “05 04 16” was suddenly reading “05 04 96.” It was too late. I poked at my irritated gums with my tongue and grinned at my teeth in the bathroom mirror. Their yellow tinge had turned into a white crystalline that reflected the dull, flickering overhead bathroom light like a bracelet of chiseled diamonds. “It’s not permanent, right?” I warbled. “Let me see,” Harold said, and as I grinned up at him, that was the last image he would ever see.

2. Mom
Mom didn’t believe me. “My teeth blinded Harold!” I screamed into the phone receiver. She scoffed. “You’re being too dramatic,” she said, “send me a picture.” I did. I grinned into the dusty camera of my smartphone and prayed Mom wouldn’t go blind, too. “Damn, child,” she whistled, “you really did a number on yourself.” “But can you still see?” My voice was whiney. “Of course I can still see. I’m watching your father gorge himself on a jumbo jar of crunchy peanut butter right now, though I’d really rather I wasn’t. Make a dentist appointment, I’ll go with you.” The next evening mom swung by my apartment in her 2006 navy blue Chevy truck. “Let’s see those pearly whites!” Mom hollered, I grinned. Mom never drove that truck again.

3. Mr. McMillan
I feel the guiltiest about Mr. McMillan. I should’ve known better by then. Harold has shouldered the blame for his eyes, though I’ve begged him not to. Mom has adjusted. “I’m predisposed for cataracts, anyways,” she told me, “and now your father and I will never get a divorce.” But Mr. McMillan deserved better. He was my dentist since I graduated from the crocodile-tapestried room of the pediatric department. I sat in Mr. McMillan’s dentist chair and tapped the heels of my white Sketchers together as I waited. A nurse came in and asked a few questions. I answered through my lips or Mom answered for me when she wasn’t on the phone with her eye doctor. Mr. McMillan came in wearing his signature purple scrubs and asked to see my teeth. “They might blind you,” I warned, holding my palm over my mouth. “I’ve heard that one before. Let’s see ‘em.” And in two seconds I ended Mr. McMillan’s career.

4. Jake
It was a good three years between Mr. McMillan and Jake. I was careful as to not have any accidents. I invested in a solid wardrobe of cloth face masks. The fashion trend was all the rage among idols in South Korea, apparently, so I also learned to be a staunch KPop fan. Jake was my coworker. He had three active sexual harassment claims against him at the time and management was doing nothing until HR sorted through the claims. “Smile for me, Mary Anne,” he would say to me every morning after I punched in and clipped on my nametag. He’d snatch off my face mask and laugh. I learned to carry an extra in my pocket. The day after I got engaged to Harold, I’d had enough. “Smile,” Jake said, “If you don’t smile, how do I know he’ll treat you right?” “I am smiling.” He yanked off my mask, the bands snapping off my ears and his fingernails scratching my cheekbone. “No you’re not. Just give me a smile.” So I did.

5. Catcaller on 5th Ave.
“Nice ass, sweetheart!”

6. Mr. Jordan
He’d promote me if I slept with him.

7. The grocery store manager that never wore his nametag
“You’d be prettier if you didn’t wear that ugly thing.” “You’d be prettier if you smiled more.”

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