Frank was sitting on his lopsided piano bench in front of the counter, legs crossed up on the seat underneath him, red-painted toenails barely showing from under his thigh. He was in one of his oversized shirts, the wide boat-cut neckline barely keeping it on, and Gerard could see the strap of his bra (black, this time) running over his shoulder.

The only sound in the dressing room was Frank's breathing and the gentle shhhk as she pulled a lace tighter. "There we go," she said, stepping back. "Yes?" she asked, when he was still silent. "Yes," Frank said, still watching himself in the mirror. Yes.