As the sound on the stage faded and the band began to take their bows, Gerry’s elbow was tugged, and Deidre crooked a single finger in the traditional ‘follow-me’ gesture. The dressing room he was led to was quiet and serene. Goldenrod walls seemed that much warmer under lowered lighting. A television flashed image after image, but it did so soundlessly. Instead, a small radio piped whispered rock through its speakers and flashed 12:00 in a strangely soothing, never-ending reminder to set the time. Other than the stylist’s chair that sat in front of the unlit mirror, there was only one other, and it was of the wooden fold-and-store variety. However, along the back of the room, a padded bench had been built out of the wall whereby visitors to the dressing room could sit and watch either the
