It's summer in the global south ( winter in the global north), and during the month of January, Literatur.Review brings them together, publishing untranslated or previously unpublished stories from the north and south of our world.

Carlos Vázquez Cruz (Puerto Rico, 1971) is a writer, teacher and musician. He earned a doctorate in Romance Languages from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, a master's degree in Creative Writing in Spanish from New York University and a bachelor's degree in Secondary Education in Spanish from the Río Piedras Campus of the University of Puerto Rico.

With a week until my thesis defence, I take a breather on Monday and treat myself to lunch at Linda's Bar & Grill, home of Cuban sliders, boneless Buffalo wings and Chapel Hill's most sought-after bartenders/waiters. Honestly, the reality is far less pompous than it sounds.

Regardless of its geographic expanse, the vitality of this so-called "village" is limited to a stretch of Franklin Street. There, are clustered the many bars and restaurants, the few stores and, of course, the only university, whose population evaporates during the holidays, leaving desolation and abandonment in its wake. One block west of Linda's Bar, Columbia Street opens up. To the south, it follows the campus boundary until it intersects with Manning Drive, where the Medical and Dental Schools are situated, as well as four or five hospitals. It's a real conglomeration of the racial and intellectual diversity of the institution and the cream of North Carolinian folklore.

"It's hard to believe that four years ago I was in this very seat, churned up with fear, wondering if this is where I would be getting my doctorate...!", but just as I'm gearing up to expound on my existentialism, Murphy's Law stops me in my tracks. I bite into some "boneless" meat, hear a crunch, my jaw tenses and, when I spit into my napkin, pieces of bone and tooth appear in a pool of blood.

The muffled scream that escapes me fills the room. Right in broad daylight, I become the centre of the Milky Way. The crowd watches me, mouths full and eyes wide. Those closest to me manage to contort their faces into a grimace whilst continuing to chew. The bartender, taking it all in, quickly circles the bar, glass in hand, and comes over. He fills my field of vision and I am overwhelmed with confusion: big sneakers, muscular calves, beefy thighs, red hair vibrating in the breeze that blows in whenever the door opens, indiscreet shorts that -I suspect - guard imposing secrets, a waist that reveals abs, and the big, hairy paw of a ferocious wolf, generously offering water to Little Red Riding Hood.

"Dead, yes. Gap-toothed, no," is my mantra. I whisper something because, what with the pain and the throbbing in my jaw, the bloody residue that I could not swallow is awash with saliva. In my indecision between spitting and swallowing, I grab the glass without looking up, slide off the stool and head for the bathroom. On the way, I hear a stream of beer being poured from the fountain, cutlery scraping against plates, cloths wiping down corners, even the subtle blinking of the polite, professional, reserved, impeccable clientele.

In the bathroom, I lock the door. Sink or toilet? I choose the toilet because defeat, if accepted, should be experienced intensely. Suddenly, I resurrect a forgotten religiosity: "Lord, please don't let me make a fool of myself in front of the red-haired gringo!" Thinking it is one thing, but I try to say it as I kneel, contemplating myself in the red puddle of the toilet bowl, as if staring at the apotheosis of disgrace. After all, aren't ducks born without the microchip of drama an aberration of nature?

I sit on the floor for a few minutes. I wring out the napkin and extract a fragment of a molar. I clean it up a bit, tuck it into my pocket - "I'll wash it later," I muse - and dump the rest of the waste into the toilet bowl. I unroll some toilet paper, fold it up and wedge it in, trying to absorb as much as possible, but it disintegrates, filling my mouth with a soggy, unpleasant mush. My busy tongue tries to collect it; but running it along the inside of the gums and the spaces that join them to the lips only serves to irritate the affected area and increase the bleeding. I get up, go to the sink, turn on the tap and scoop water into my mouth until the blood flow subsides. In the middle of all this, there's a knock on the door:

-Are you alright? someone calls out in a southern accent, unmistakeably worried.

I dry myself gently, but quickly, with the sleeves of my sweater. I flush the toilet. I open the door. In front of me looms the solid white wall of his body. I notice his sad expression, like a chicken on the way to slaughter. It's in total contrast to the pheromones he's giving off and which assault my nostrils. "Dethroned like this, you can't fight on equal terms," I think, and I am ready to bow my head, but he asks again how I'm doing, and grabs my face with his paws, bringing his own closer to inspect my jaw, which has been left hanging open like an invitation to an imminent catastrophe.

-I am really sorry!

I really am so sorry!" he emphasises, and his breath, marijuana with a hint of hallucinogenic mushroom, hangs on my senses the promise of a life of excess, of sex and substances, that will annihilate me.

Obviously, I do what any respectable madwoman does in the face of danger: jump into the void, heels on. Gap-toothed, dethroned, I lift my hands; a sneaky feel of his biceps as I close my eyes, pretend to almost faint and, in that second, imagine knocking out my entire set of teeth on the bone hidden in his boneless wing.

Startled, I realise that we are practically embracing in public. Slowly, I push him aside. I make my way over to the now-clean table, gather up my belongings and leave. However, the waiter catches me up, still apologising, and holds out a piece of paper:

-Honestly, I'm really sorry! Please, call or text me if you need anything.

I read the note in which he even reproaches me for leaving the glass of water untouched. Immediately, I decide not to call him. A respectable academic would never sully his reputation by contacting a guy whose messages are riddled with spelling mistakes. Yet something sparks in me the vegetarian craving for cannabis and mushrooms that will be my apocalypse and, if there's one thing that distinguishes the real crazy people from the fakes, it is that they would do the splits, in stilettos, on the edge of the sword. The fakes, then, were born to applaud us. That's why I take out my phone, dial his number while looking him up and down, let it ring, then hang up so he can add me to his contacts. The 'never' is usually definitive, but everything changes, so why shouldn't I?....

I stand at the bus stop opposite to wait for the next bus heading down Columbia Street towards Manning Drive. It arrives, almost empty. I go to the back seat because dramas without spectators are not always worth the effort. I get off near the Dental School. I quicken my pace. The throbbing pain is exacerbated, perhaps, by the intense burst of sunshine that assails such an unpredictable April.

Like any good actress, the further I go, the more I get into the role; to the point that, when the assistant sees me, although she does not dispense with the usual checklist, she immediately classifies me as an emergency. To be honest, the place is empty. Apparently, oral health in the south is fantastic. I retire to the bathroom to wash the bit of tooth I keep in my pocket. A certain tenderness, a familiar sorrow, mingles in my heart: "This is the closest I'll ever get to bathing a baby of my own," I reflect, as if I owe the world the creation of a person. In the meantime, I communicate with pen and paper. "One word and they'll think it's not urgent, but I've got my thesis defence next week," I convince myself, "Besides, an injured mouth turns any second language into a third tongue."

The dentist soon sees to me, leading me to a reclining chair and making me sit, mouth agape as if frozen in shock. Like a speleologist, he analyses the cavern of my vocabulary with his instruments. He registers the stalactites, examines the stalagmites, detects the microscopic flora and fauna, dwellers in the yellow and blackish cartography of tartar and cavities. He keeps me informed as he goes, information I find incomprehensible, since the more open the mouth, the more closed the auditory canals. The slightest touch to the fractured tooth goes through my neck, my torso, my waist, until it sweeps through my hip and anchors itself to the chair. He gives me a paste to bite, for the imprint of the jaw, and I do so repressing tears, inwardly cursing his chromosome, but as he pulls out plates, he rubs my chin with professional affection and I forgive him, for it has been a long time since a man's fingers have threatened to tear my lips.

In short, both dentists and operating theatres are fully booked for the rest of the week. Apparently, in the south, oral health isn't that great after all, and here comes this Puerto Rican to catapult the statistics. However, a few hours ago, someone cancelled their appointment for tomorrow, Tuesday at ten o'clock, so I'm given their spot. I will be received by another specialist -excellent, I'm assured- and everything will be ready. Until then, the dentist recommends three things: aspirin, liquids and plenty of patience.

Once I leave, my existence seems to spiral through the twists and turns of Murphy's Law. Despite the terrible traffic, I get back to the apartment. The exposed, vulnerable nerve suffers the inclement temperature of juices, coffee, soups.... everything! A metal spoon only has to brush against the enamel of the broken crown to set off a rumbling in my ear, a shiver of pins and needles and an icy stab in my spine. I nibble half a sandwich with my incisors and canines, move the contents to the opposite side of my mouth to make the most artistic cud on the planet, but some particle always lodges in the wound. I try to hum or talk just to hear humanity, but I bite my cheek violently. I brush my teeth before bed, but the bristles rub, penetrate, grope, hurt that curse destined to end the next day. Meanwhile, I experience the torture as eternity. The only encouragement lies in the copious messages sent by the red-haired gringo through the afternoon and evening, to which I respond with selfies whose angles exaggerate my condition. "The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow," I reply, because 'extraction' sounds too basic and feelings of guilt only flourish when anxiety is sown in fertile soil.

"Did you eat? Send me your address, and I'll bring you something," he texts.

"I had a portobello mushroom salad. Thank you!", gratitude garnished with the symbols of a mushroom, a smiley face and the requested address... just in case.

He replies with the winking emoji, a dried leaf, a bonfire and a cloud, I imagine by mistake. I lie down, still at the mercy of Murphy's Law, which wakes me up every time I change position and my weight rests on the sore area.

I won't describe the morning routine because it is presumed to be similar to -and implicit in- the previous one, and I do not delve into the vicissitudes of transportation to the clinic or the picturesque North Carolinian folklore swarming in hospitals, because the weariness, the abhorrence, the weakness of spirit and the toads and snakes that choke me -if I let them out- could kill someone. I'd better keep them to myself, let them kill me. Therefore, I choose... beauty.

On the sacrificial altar, sitting rigid and robed, clinging to the arms of the chair with my mouth open to its very limits, a suction tube inserted, I watch the new dentist approaching me with the anaesthetic The injection causes me to jump, and a second time, when I notice the stabbing discomfort that forces him to double the dose. He waits. He calls his boss because the pain is not easing.

-I think he has anaesthesia awareness.

He is not authorised to administer more. He asks me if I wish to continue with the extraction and, at the level of hatred that fills my soul, I blink affirmatively, of course, with tears stuck in the corner of my eye. Then, I get distracted. His perfect black skin, so even, reflecting the light given off by the lamp. His dark pupils, dense, concentrated, penetrating, looking at my deep throat because, well.... talents must be exploited. His forearms ready to uproot the defective tooth. The hormonal scent that stirs my olfactory glands. In short, a precious, precious body manifest before me, designed for seduction, but who will never want me because those hands don't make mistakes.

Suddenly... No. I don't want to lose it. "I've never had a tattoo. I've never had surgery. This tooth was given to me by my mother." In a second, memories come flooding back - of the meals she made me, of the sounds that formed my dictionary, of her repertoire of songs, guardian of her loving hope, and the manners that would guarantee my splendid smile. Thanks to her, my teeth have been my treasure chest of words, my bed of bones and roots, the legacy that -unconsciously- connects me to my origins. Until today. They are going to amputate a fragment of my mother. They are going to mutilate my people. They are going to uproot me from my homeland.

I am about to close my mouth, but the doctor twists his torso, taking the chair with it. The front of his pants accidentally rubs my right hand, which twitches, shakes, half in pain, half in desire. Faced with this veritable reservoir of testosterone, all I can do is open my mouth again, revealing to him the atrocious burning that consumes me. He takes the opportunity to remove the closest thing I have to the umbilical cord. I let out a scream like that of a birth; this time, a death.

Does it hurt? he asks, in a low voice. I make no pretence at answering.

"I'm in pain," I think, knowing he won't understand.

After the intervention and the required cleaning, I'm handed a bag of dressings, a prescription (no spelling mistakes), a card detailing the next appointment. In the absence of friends to help me, I walk to the bus stop with a swollen mouth, full of a tranquilizer that does not numb me, but whose physical effect is felt in the sagging cheek that is reflected in the bus window. I answer the seven messages that, at the expense of guilt, the red-haired bartender has sent. I confess to him that I'm sick, that I need to isolate myself, that I won't touch my mobile phone until Friday evening. I text my supervisor, and tell her everything. I completely cut myself off from everyone.

When Friday arrives, I re-enter the land of the living. Cautiously, I eat solid food; I clean the house, sunbathe on the balcony and tend to myself. Perched on the couch in front of the TV, at about six o'clock, I turn on the phone. The string of notifications bursts between my palms. I read with indifference - this audience is more interested in my private life than in my emotions.

The only one I write to is the waiter, because sixteen "Are you okay?'s" is over the top. Point by point, I explain that I am back to normal, that we can see each other whenever we want, and I thank him for his concern. I attach a photo whose angle shows me off better than I'm feeling, making sure a handmade, slightly used pipe is just visible. After a while, he knocks and calls out:

-I'm glad you're doing well!

He breaths his marijuana breath with hints of hallucinogenic mushroom as soon as I open the door, while his huge, hairy, big bad wolf paw generously offers a gift to Little Red Riding Hood.

I glance at it. Green salad and wild mushrooms. I gesture to him and those indiscreet shorts, swollen with mystery, cross the threshold. "In a molar, my mother began to abandon me, my home began to fade, Puerto Rico distanced itself from me on the map and my body - already far away - begins its decline" I muse. "After losing the crown and the roots, all there is left for me is to self-destruct," and I trigger the inevitable catastrophe in which the indecision between spitting and swallowing is resolved.