Fiddlestix Review

Amanda Chartier


      I live for those carefree moments when my best friend’s face lights up in his famous pearly grin—those straight-teethed, squinty-eyed moments of sheer delight.  He has a smile for every instant: the apologetic curl of crimson corners when the last of the milk for the coffee is gone, or the contented smirk or self-satisfaction (usually accompanied by a celebratory, “Hah!”) he flashes my way when he has successfully navigated the internet. 

      I let him smile for me, comfortable with maintaining my painted Mona Lisa expression in lieu of showing my own crooked rows.  His bursting guffaw, hearty and unbridled as he lay across the discount futon of our college years includes my appreciation for the wit of our television favorites.  Peach halves bloom beside his nose, where crinkled freckles give way to upturned eyebrows every time I place my clumsiness on display and soar down stairs, unable to laugh at myself. 

      The sight of central twin incisors as they spill slightly over his bottom lip greets me in seconds of acknowledgement, a joyful affirmation of my proposed humor.  Yet, my favorite spectacle lies in that of his pure, unadulterated beam—that full-toothed display of bliss as we share moments of utter connectivity, during which I might be moved to smile along with him.