She wonders how long she can stay like this, on this couch, stuffing every pocket of her brain (each a potential source of pain) with shouting housewives and ordinary people with really great singing voices.
While she waits, she folds up her small self, her smallest self, tucks in questions (why? And aren’t I good enough?) and smooths angry creases.
When she’s ready, she will unpick it, with thick dumb fingers, and maybe she will learn or feel or remember the character of her sadness.