I think: I’ll come nice and early, so I’ll be first. But the waiting room is full. There I sit, a grown man among women who are always secretly nibbling. And who’s in the most pain? Me. Jan Hendrik van Kortendaal, a man of standing, who in his entire life has never eaten anything sweet and certainly brushes his teeth three times a day. Why does this have to happen to me? I broke my molar while ladling up my soup! How are those old ladies supposed to eat properly if I can’t even do that? What if those two women are still in the waiting room when it’s my turn? What if they hear me moaning or screaming in pain? I’ve heard the dentist isn’t the gentlest. Luckily I have a bandage around my head, so at least I don’t have to speak if one of those two asks me something.

The wait drags on unbelievably long. Is the dentist even here? Didn’t he say quarter to ten? Or am I mistaken? I wish there were a dental assistant I could ask for advice. That man must be rich enough—just look at the floor, the rug, and those paintings on the wall. I quite like that one. Why is that fellow sitting beneath it? When he’s gone and she’s in the treatment room, I’ll snatch that painting. It fits perfectly under my coat, and then at least I’ll make up for the waiting costs.

I’m pretty sure the dentist isn’t here, or he’s off drinking coffee. I don’t hear a single sound behind the door. That’s never a good sign. Could he be asleep? I have better things to do than sit here for hours. Why is there never a clock in a doctor’s waiting room? Does he think time stands still without one?

Good Lord, how it stinks in here. I can’t bear the smell of people’s sweat—those patients… oh heavens, I think I’m about to be sick. I press my handkerchief to my face. What do I do if I can’t hold it in? What have I gotten myself into? There’s surely no restroom here. Vomiting out on the street isn’t any better, and it’ll ruin my outfit. Can’t someone open a window? It’s so dusty in here. That dentist is clearly single: not a woman’s hand in sight, no assistant. I don’t think this is going to be a great date. You know what? To hell with my mother. I’ll count to fifty—and if he still hasn’t shown up, I’m off.

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