Please, come with me . . .
In a still small voice . . .
At this point, my roommate became quite worried, wondering why I was crying. So I narrated to her the story of my walk from dance class one afternoon . . .
You see, the thing about being panel beat is the possibility that no one might know that you are hurting. On the surface, you're all clean, but the fibres of your being can still feel the dent . . .