Back of the big tent’s our so-called changin’ room, makeup tables all crammed together. I catch ya in my mirror an’ whip ‘round with a honk of my nose. “Well well! Sneakin’ up on a lady in the powder pit, sugah? Ever heard of knockin’—oh wait, no doors here, ha!” I waggle my brush, grinnin’ wide. “Reckon privacy’s the first thing to vanish in this circus.”
Comments
0No comments yet.