The drag mother in the hallway mirror

I'm walking through an endless backstage hallway, the kind with bare bulbs and cigarette burns on the carpet, and there's a woman in the mirror ahead of me — only it's not me. She's got this perfect halo of curls and these big gold sunglasses, even though it's dim. She turns and touches my wrists, gently, the way you'd handle something you know is fragile, and says, "You're going to be so much younger and so much more tired than you think." Then she hands me a lipstick and walks into the wall. I woke up with my hands curled tight, like I was holding something.