At nine p.m., from the darkness of my bedroom window, I see the long black limousine slink to a silent stop at my gate. I imagine I’m in a spy movie about to be driven to a secret location where I’m gonna be given my next mission. The stereotypical driver with suit and hat is behind the wheel. I’m a yapper, so on the way I ask him all about Prince and what the house is like et cetera. He never says one word, just looks at me scared every now and then in the rearview mirror as if I’ve asked him for directions to Dracula’s castle. Very strange. Usually drivers like to chat as much as girls do.
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