Saturday night, 8:47 PM.
For the second time before the interval, Diane muttered an apology and squeezed past six pairs of knees in row F.
She missed the best song of the show standing in a restroom queue.
Home was no easier. Up at 1, again at 3, and once more just before the alarm. Mornings started with gritty eyes and a third coffee she did not really want.
"When did my body stop listening to me?" she asked her reflection.
She had cut out tea after lunch, stopped drinking anything after six, bought cranberry pills, even kept a notebook of every wake-up. The tally only got longer.
Then, over coffee with her old walking group, her friend Ruth slid a bottle across the table and said: