“Do you have any ChapStick?” he asks. “Can your mouth moisturization wait a minute?” I cry. “Nah, not really—it’s for the zipper, Daphne.” “In the medicine cabinet,” I tell him. We shuffle together into the cramped bathroom, him holding up the back of my dress as we go. I hand the tube to him and he does whatever it is he thinks he’s going to do with it, then goes back to wrestling the zipper. He loses purchase and smacks an elbow into the wall behind me with a grunt of pain. “It’s too cramped in here.” We shuffle-step back into the hall. He tries again, his frustrated huff turning into a
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