Gregory’s teeth were televisions. Tiny, flickering screens, each broadcasting a different channel. News anchors on his molars, cooking shows on his incisors, cartoons on his canines. Conversations were difficult—people got distracted by the weather report on his lower left bicuspid.
Dentists tried to “fix” him, offering veneers or complete removal. His parents suggested he keep his mouth shut in public. Job interviews were a nightmare; hiring managers lost focus when breaking news interrupted his answers.
One evening, he met Lillian. She had radios for ears. As they spoke, the frequencies aligned—her AM station picked up the dialogue from his middle premolar, and for the first time, Gregory felt heard. They sat together, sharing silence that hummed with distant sitcom laughter.
When they kissed, her radios crackled with static, then settled into a perfect symphony—his late-night movie marathon blending seamlessly into the tune playing in her head.
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