For several minutes that was the extent of the attack: she should have seen “it” coming, she kept thinking, even though there was no “it” other than the stinging blame that she should have seen it coming. She was in the bathroom stall an hour before stage time, and she was still there five minutes before stage time, and she was there ten minutes after stage time. Ian sent in the French girl from the coat check: gentle knuckles on the stall’s wooden door and “Miss? You need a thing?” She rebuilt a facsimile of herself at the mirror, told herself that, though she should’ve seen it coming, she had no choice now but to pretend it hadn’t happened. Ian was waiting outside and she saw how she looked reflected in his eyes, his pity, his coddling offer of some more time, and she loathed what she saw and loathed him for showing it to her. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. Let’s just go. I said stop. Don’t touch me.” Worse was yet to come; she should’ve seen this coming, too: she sang hideously, possibly the worst performance of seventeen years singing in public.
