What’s left of the General Tso’s chicken is on the coffee table. The sauce that eluded my mouth is congealing on my T-shirt. American Idol just started. And Megan, my fiancée of three days, is getting ready to swab the inside of my mouth with Q-Tips that are nearly as long as chopsticks. “OK, open that mouth,” she says. “Wider.” She is a doctor. I do as I’m told. “You know, these look like little Pap-smear brushes,” she muses. My mouth snaps closed. “C’mon, open up,” she says. I stall.