Chapter 2 — Art Meets Dentistry
Evander
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Evander’s dental clinic, casting sharp beams of light onto the immaculate floors. The faint hum of the sterilizer resonated in the background, a rhythm Evander found steadying. But today, that rhythm faltered. He stood at the threshold of his waiting room, arms crossed, his blue eyes fixed on the wall where Tess had triumphantly hung Cressida Vaughn’s painting.
It was chaos incarnate.
The painting was a tumultuous clash of blues, fiery reds, and streaks of gold, swirling and colliding like a storm trapped on canvas. At the center spun an abstract spiral, its motion pulling the eye inward, while the edges frayed into jagged streaks that seemed to defy containment. The vibrant piece practically throbbed against the muted gray walls of the waiting room, its energy a jarring contrast to the clinic’s pristine order.
“Tess,” Evander said, his voice clipped but calm as he gestured toward the painting, “what is that doing on my wall?”
Tess, perched behind the reception desk, barely stifled a grin as she twirled a pen between her fingers. Her scrubs, adorned with cartoon sharks brandishing toothbrushes, were particularly obnoxious today. “Oh, you noticed!” she said, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “Cressida dropped it off this morning. Said it was a thank-you gift for fixing her tooth. Thought it might add some... personality to the place.”
Evander pinched the bridge of his nose, his glasses shifting slightly. “Personality? Tess, this clinic is designed to instill calm, not...” He waved a hand toward the painting, as though trying to swat away its chaotic energy. “...whatever that is.”
Tess leaned forward, her grin unwavering. “Oh, come on, Doc. It’s not like she painted a murder scene. It’s art! And don’t pretend you weren’t staring at it longer than necessary. You weren’t just looking; you were analyzing it.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it. You don’t hate it as much as you want to.”
Evander’s lips thinned. “It’s an assault on my walls.”
Tess laughed, unabashed. “You’re such a drama queen. Even the most orderly world needs a little splash of chaos. Balance, Doc. Trust me, it’s good for you.”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned on his heel and retreated to his office, but the painting lingered in his thoughts like an errant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.
---
The day unfolded with its usual rhythm: patients came and went, their dental concerns addressed with Evander’s characteristic precision. Yet, no matter how methodically he worked, his thoughts kept circling back to the painting.
What was it about the piece that unsettled him so deeply? At first glance, it was simply disorder, everything he worked to avoid. But the more he tried to dismiss it, the more it pressed on his mind. The swirling center had a strange pull, its chaotic energy vibrant and alive. It wasn’t just distracting—it was challenging. As though it wasn’t content to exist quietly on the wall but demanded his attention, his response.
By the time the last patient left, the clinic had settled into a rare stillness. Evander sat at his desk, the warm glow of his lamp illuminating the faint lines of fatigue in his face. His pocket watch lay open beside him, its soft ticking a steady counterpoint to his swirling thoughts. He picked it up and ran his thumb over the engraving: *Time heals all wounds.* The familiar phrase steadied him, though only for a moment. His gaze drifted toward the storage room door.
He hesitated, the watch cool in his hand. The painting’s riotous colors flashed in his mind—the wild strokes, the unapologetic energy—and for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate, he found himself rising from his chair.
The storage room was utilitarian, its shelves packed with boxes of dental supplies and outdated equipment. But tucked away in the back corner, almost hidden, was a narrow door. Evander approached it, the key cold against his palm. He rarely unlocked it—this space was his alone, a refuge he guarded carefully.
Inside, the air was tinged with the comforting scents of sawdust and varnish. A workbench sat beneath a small window, cluttered with chisels, blocks of wood, and half-finished sculptures. Here, his need for precision found a different outlet, one where perfection wasn’t dictated by clinical necessity.
His eyes fell on a block of wood positioned at the center of the bench, half-carved into a symmetrical design. He reached for it, but his hand faltered. The memory of Cressida’s painting tugged at him, its chaotic beauty stirring something uncomfortably raw. Slowly, he set the block aside and reached for a fresh piece of wood instead.
The chisel felt familiar in his hand, its handle worn smooth over years of use. He began carving with his usual deliberation, each stroke precise and measured. But as the minutes passed, an unfamiliar rhythm crept in. His grip loosened, his movements grew freer, the chisel carving instinctively rather than methodically. The lines became uneven, the edges raw, the symmetry abandoned.
He didn’t stop. The chaos of the brushstrokes in Cressida’s painting seemed to guide him, pushing him to let go of control. The result was unlike anything he had ever created. It was imperfect, its curves irregular and its surface marred by a jagged groove he deliberately left uncorrected. Yet it pulsed with life, with energy, a reflection not of precision but of emotion.
Evander set the chisel down, stepping back to examine the sculpture. His chest rose and fell with a quiet, steadying breath. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a rare and fleeting expression of satisfaction. For a moment, he let it linger.
He glanced at the pocket watch on the bench, its ticking steady and unchanging. Slowly, deliberately, he left it unwound.
---
The next morning, the clinic was already bustling when Evander arrived. Tess was behind the front desk, chatting animatedly with a patient. Her laughter carried through the waiting room, mingling with the soft whirr of machinery. The painting still hung on the wall, its vibrant colors as jarring as ever against the clinic’s muted tones.
Evander paused in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the piece. For the first time, he noticed its layers—the way the gold streaks seemed to shimmer beneath the blues, the motion of the swirling center as if it might pull him in. It wasn’t calm, but it wasn’t chaos either. It was something in between. Something alive.
“Morning, Dr. Quinn,” Tess called, her grin as bright as the painting. She tilted her head toward it. “Still distracting?”
Evander adjusted his glasses, his expression measured. “It’s not entirely without merit,” he said evenly.
Tess blinked, momentarily stunned. Then she broke into a wide smile. “I’ll take that as a win.”
The day carried on, patients flowing in and out like clockwork. Yet, as Evander moved through his carefully ordered routine, his thoughts wandered to the sculpture waiting in his workshop. He could see it clearly in his mind’s eye—its raw edges, its imperfect curves, its unapologetic vitality.
And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he didn’t mind that either.
