Jim woke up yet again with the distinct feeling that his mouth was not his own. His teeth were to too sharp and tasted of chemicals. Every night they seemed to reform themselves in new positions just familiar enough to keep him wondering. He had tried, with little succes, to tie them in place with dental-floss, but their sharp edges slashed the bonds with ease. In desperation he borrowed his girlfriends dental-retainer when she wasnt using it.
He stole to the bathroom, retainer tucked in the pocket of his robe. "Gotta go," he called out in a sudden desire to give himself the pretense of doing normal things in the morning. He wondered if his girlfriend, coming out of heavy sleep, bought his pretense.
He closed the door and pushed the button lock on the knob.
"Gotta go?" he quietly asked himself. "What the hell am I? Closseau?"
