It's not superglue, for fuck's sake. You'd have an epidemic of blind drag queens.

[The dressing table has a scatter of make up across it. Freddie picks up a little bottle, glancing at it before dropping down to sit on the couch.]

Water based. And me? Nothing much.

[Though there's a nasty trail of bruises under his shirt that may eventually warrant some explanation. And a few on his neck which might be more obvious.]

I haven't decided to marry some old man for his fortune, or anything, unlike some of us.