Hugo sings the male part, his feet moving back and forth, hands lifted to a partner that isn’t there. Then he does a kick ball change, flipping around to show the other side of his profile to the audience, the dark blue dress flipping and shimmering under the lights.

“Doing it solo makes the whole performance better,” Bee whispers to me.

I glance over at her. “You think so?”

Her eyes gleam under the distant stage lights. “It’s so much more honest.”

“Honest?” I ask, eyes still on Hugo/Dolly, singing both parts alone, dancing by himself.

“Think about it. Listen to the words. It gives the whole song a deeper meaning. Makes you think more about what constitutes the time of your life. Do you, in fact, owe it to someone else?”

I nod slowly. “Other people can’t make you happy.” Something I’ve reminded myself of a lot over the past . . . many Mondays.

Bee shrugs. “Maybe they can, temporarily. I had a successful show one time. Long time ago—baby, we won’t discuss when—but I’ve had fans. A lot of them. Hundreds of people every night. Men telling me they loved me. It was heady at first, don’t get me wrong, but after a while it made me realize people telling you they love you doesn’t actually bring you any love. It has to come from in here.” She pats her chest.

Fifi stage-whispers from behind us. “From boobies?”

Bee twists around. “No, hunty, from your heart.” She scoffs and waves a hand at Fifi.

Once Dolly finishes and exits the stage, Bee and Fifi disappear into the back to join her.

I wait in the auditorium, eyeballing the people in charge of the show as they murmur to each other.

When they put the paper up, I hold my breath, waiting waiting waiting as the queens crowd the stage to read the list.

A few moments later, Bee’s loud sing-song voice shrieks, “Con-drag-ulations!”

On stage, Fifi and Bee crowd around Dolly, a tangle of limbs hugging, squealing, and also grabbing each other’s asses.

I laugh so hard I cry. I’m so happy I could scream. It worked. It actually worked! This day is different. Someone who had a bad day now has had a good day.

When I meet them by the stage, Dolly kisses both of my cheeks and then grabs at my hands. “We have to go celebrate. You in?” She beams with joy, her eyelashes wet with tears.

“Yes. Absolutely. I’m in.”

Three hours and two martinis later, I’m regurgitating stories about my sordid past that were better left on the inside.

“He basically used me for sex and I was too stupid and naïve to realize it.”