Luna Diana
She could do it.
A yellow cab honked outside, and she hurried to meet it. “Papagalli’s Dance Club,” she said to the driver, her words rushed.
“Yes, ma’am. Hot date?” the driver asked, black dreadlocks jiggling when he talked, his voice sounding Jamaican. Steel band music thumped on his CD player while he tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel imperfect sync with the tune, his body rocking to the beat.
“Somebody’s dying to meet me,” she answered, jumping into the car.
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