Rebel
He moved to shut the door in my face, and I stepped through it instead, and then we were both inside the dressing room and the door was closed behind me.
It was barely a room. A mirror ringed in bulbs, half of them burned out. A rolling rack of black clothes shoved against one wall. A single chair with a towel slung over the back. The smell I’d caught in the corridor was stronger in here — face powder, sweat, and underneath both of those something warmer and vaguely familiar. It curled into me and pulled, and for half a second the room tilted toward a memory that wasn’t there. Then the headache came down like a shutter, and I was just a woman standing in a stranger’s dressing room with her heart going too fast.
He turned to face me.
Some instinct that was the old me took inventor
