The gentle clatter of plastic crockery and soft, radio-ready hits put Dawn in a state of dreamy ease. She was having dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, Applebee’s, with one of her favorite co-workers, Bethanne. The two women had just finished off an appetizer sampler platter (it was Friday, and darn it, Dawn felt like celebrating). Dawn closed her eyes, but not too tightly (those crow’s feet didn’t need any more encouragement) and felt fully alive. When she opened them, Bethanne began recounting what would certainly be a hilarious story. But something was wrong. Dawn’s gaze became focused… impossibly focused. On Bethanne’s sunlessly tanned chin rested a buttery flake of crust from one of those precious little Southwestern Egg Rolls. Time slowed down, and Bethanne’s voice began to warp. The lively flair of the Applebee’s dining room blurred and melted. The flake stayed defiantly in place, and Dawn’s empathetic embarrassment engulfed her. “Do I say something? How? When?” Bethanne’s torturous story continued, her Zyrtec purple turtleneck and decaf coffee colored hair setting off the hellish chin crumb like a firecracker. “Oh god. It’s way too late to say something now. I have to get out of here,” Dawn thought to herself. Three minutes later, safely concealed in the ladies’ room, Dawn regrouped. “Okay. You can do this. Do it for Bethanne,” she reassured herself out loud. With one last primp and confident nod in the mirror, Dawn pushed through the ladies’ room door, and faced her fear like the heroine she always knew she could be.