The whisper of my dress stung against sunburned thighs.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
I groaned and checked the clock. 1:30 AM.
If midnight was the Witching Hour, then 3AM was the Hour of Self Loathing. A litany of conditioning and doubt – stupid, ugly, worthless. Coward. Flagellating myself in the darkness, the list marched circles in my head.
Backstage smells. An acquired taste, it’s not unpleasant, but specific and familiar. A symphony of old wood, dusty fabric, hot lights, hairspray, and bodies in motion. The dressing room air conditioner has stopped working and there are too many sticky people jostling for real estate in front of the mirror. Elbows knock together, but no apologies follow. No one bothers, for it will happen again and again.