You are standing in a line to use the potty. Grown-ups have to wait for the potty? I thought when you got big you could just go.
The room shakes. There is music somewhere, so loud my teeth would feel it. Everything is a color I don't have a crayon for. Purple that turns pink. A girl in front of you is crying, but the girl holding her keeps saying you're so pretty, you're so pretty, and now they are both laughing, and I don't know how you can do both at once but you barely look up.
You used to be scared of loud rooms. You held Mom's hand and asked to leave. Now you stand here staring at the little glowing rectangle in your hand, and your face has the tired grown-up face on, the one you make when you are somewhere your body is but you are not.
Here is the part I need to tell you. A lady just handed you a paper towel and you said thank you and you meant it, really meant it, warm and real, to a stranger, at almost two in the morning. And the crying girl leaned on you and you held her up without even thinking about it.
You are so kind to people you don't know. When did you learn that? Was it hard?
I hope after this you go home and drink water and pet something soft. Will you?
Just tell me you still know how to leave when you want to.