still in third person

she's tired of being a character actor in someone else's love story, she blanks out when they speak, she struggles when they drag her into scene. she's wrung out from being judged on looks or clothes or typing or conversation skills or god knows what. she's sick and sore from being the entertainer, up on stage, working the crowd, the ungrateful crowd. she wants a quiet perch, with flowing drink and food, from which to spy on the throngs, that must no more ask. must not ask anything. no encore.