is there any enamel left?

And I, dear readers, I, your soft-voiced correspondent from the ether, your confidant, your secret shame, your blathering, teasing Proust wannabe, your reluctant refugee from the cork-lined room, your coffee-loving, brunette-lusting, nearsighted and afraid of ceiling fans stalwart of the underpaid, found myself trapped in a bathroom stall this afternoon listening to my OCD (obsessive, compulsive, drunk) coworker brush her teeth--brush and rinse loudly, water hitting the sink like a whale throwing up against a rock--five times.

Five times.