“The show is over. I’m over. History. Find me a flight home. Schedule me an appointment with a plastic surgeon”

The restroom door squeaked open.

Deena leaped up from the leather bench and rushed over to the nearest stall. Panting, she locked the door behind her. A moment later, she heard soft footfalls and then a hesitant cough. “Deena?”

Ruthie.

Deena leaned back against the door and filled her lungs. “I’m here,” she said hoarsely.

Ruthie was quiet. Deena waited, her knees shaking. Ruthie didn’t say another word.

After several minutes of silence, Deena unlocked the door and shuffled out. Ruthie backed into the powder area, motioning for Deena to sit. She sat.

Ruthie perched on the counter near the sinks. “That was tough,” she said quietly.

Deena looked up. “Tough?” Her breath shook. “That was… crazy! She’s crazy! I’m never walking out of this room!”

Ruthie ran her fingers over the countertop. “You need to get out of here, Deena. You must get back onstage.”

“What? Are you nuts? The show is over. I’m over. History. Find me a flight home. Schedule me an appointment with a plastic surgeon.”

Ruthie chuckled. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not… it’s not funny. It’s… oh.” She dropped her head down into her palms. The tears started flowing again.

Ruthie got off the counter and walked forward tentatively. She paused, then sat down on the bench next to Deena, placed a box of tissues down on her side and slowly put her hand on Deena’s shoulder.

“Not only this audience,” Deena sobbed, “the entire world. Zev’s parents watched this happen.”