Pandora's Children Book 1: In The Chair previews

Dentures

Peter Koslov sat upright in the dental chair, the gaze of his brown eyes passing between the doctor to his left, who was busy consulting his chart, and the petite blonde to his right, who was patiently awaiting waiting for directions from the doctor, but his eyes did linger on the waif of an assistant longer than most would consider appropriate.  But given his age, a spry eight-six (or so it was written on his chart), those types of indiscretions were often overlooked, or even considered with a mild amusement.  Older men were generally allowed to exhibit a little more lecherousness than their younger brethren, and if Peter’s indiscrete glances did in fact offend or make the girl feel uncomfortable, she gave no indication.

He studied her features during those stolen moments.  Her face was thin, lean, but not unhealthily so, the bone structure fine beneath the flesh, her skin light, bordering on pale, with a spattering of sun freckles adorning the bridge of her nose.  Her eyes were wide and blue, sparkling with an internal luster and framed by long, seductive lashes.  Her nose was small, little more than a button but perfect in proportion.  Her mouth was also diminutive, the lips painted with the slightest sheen of pink gloss, just enough to bring out their fullness without seeming artificial.  Her neck was long, the curves graceful, tantalizing, the paired muscles on either side, as well as the shadow of the gentle hollow between the two, elegantly defined by the subtle press of her alabaster skin.

Her hair was blonde, the shade of wheat still erect in the field, natural, Peter knew, born of genetics and not bottled chemicals.  He liked blondes.  In his vast experience, he learned that there was something…ephemeral about them.

Something fleeting.  Mischievous.  Naughty. 

Mercurial goddesses given mortal form.

Dr. Cordey, the middle-aged dentist overseeing Peter’s treatment, finally looked up from the chart, an amused look on his mildly lined face.  He was slightly overweight, the extra mass giving him a minor second chin and wide cheeks.  His head was prematurely bald, his eyes small and brown, his nose broad, his mouth wide.  He wore a neatly trimmed brown moustache between nose and mouth, as if trying to compensate for the missing hair on his head.  He was bland-looking in features, and in blue scrubs and white lab coat, non-descript as a human being.  

“First thing first, Mr. Koslov,” Cordey started, “I want to review your medical history with you.”

Peter snapped his eyes from the blonde to the doctor.  “I wrote everything relevant down, doctor,” he said.

“Uh, you actually didn’t write anything down, sir.  Except for the word nothing”

Peter offered a cool smile.  “If there was anything relevant, I would have written it down.”

“You’re eighty six years old, and you haven’t had a single surgery?”

“Nope.”

“No artificial joints or valves?”

“Nyet.”

“No medications?  Nothing for hypertension or diabetes or cholesterol?”

“No.”

 “Not even a baby aspirin?  Almost everyone your age is on aspirin to lower the risk of heart attack and stroke.”

“Look, doctor, I may look old, but I was blessed with the soul and constitution of an eighteen year old.  The only thing that’s gone bad on me or in me is my teeth.”

Peter was not being modest, simply telling the truth.  He was a tall man, almost six and half feet tall, and weighed a little over two hundred pounds.  He had neither the stoop in his back nor the wasted muscles and flabby flesh shared by other men of his age.  In fact, if he were to remove his shirt, the muscled, defined body beneath would have put the average college student to shame.  His face, though, belied his age, as time had etched his lightly tanned skin with no shortage of wrinkles, from light cracks at the corner of eyes and mouth, to heavier crags along his cheeks and forehead