After nine years of being attached at the hip, Lyric and Prince finally split. Now, on the road to recovery, she learns a new way to view life as Prince is forced to face the music of a song he never wanted to played aloud. Join them as they learn a...
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November 5, 1992 New York, New York
"Bless you."
I smile at the passerby pacifying my sneeze, eyes searching for a tissue or rag to assure my face is clean. Three sold out shows at Madison Square Garden and my health has been top of the line since landing here in New York. Yet, sometime this morning, I woke up with the sniffles. A strict, vitamin packed diet and every immune booster you can imagine were added to my diet two weeks ago to ensure we can kick this process off smoothly. There's no way I can be sick.
My granny has always said sneezing means someone is talking about you. Maybe tonight's show is going to be one to remember.
In the elevator, I stand and wonder what it is I'll be eating for lunch before I head off to my soundcheck. Wendy & Lisa are in town, plotting to join me tonight on the stage for my last show in The Garden. A special treat is in store for anyone coming to turn it out with us tonight. The girls and I haven't really turned any stages out together since a festival I headlined in Switzerland two years ago. Tonight, we'll set the stage on fire.
"Prince is here," says Buffy as she steps into the elevator during its first stop. "He—" My fourth sneeze in the last two minutes cuts her off. "Bless you."
"Thank you."
"He's got a cold too," informs Buffy. "Maybe something's going around." She's unknowingly provided me all of the clarity I want.
The intricacies of my this strange connection to the corpse of Prince continue to show themselves. If in close proximity when he is under the whether, I catch a stray symptom or two regardless of being in good health.
Buffy clicks her pen, putting it in her pocket. "He's looking for you."
"If he wants to see me so bad then he'll need to come find me. I'm too busy for his games."
Nodding, Buffy giggles to herself as the elevator's ding signals our stop. "I figured as much so I made sure to explicitly state that your schedule wouldn't allow any extra travels."
Our journey through the well-lit hallway of The Plaza's presidential floor. Cream walls are decorated in art of the likeliness France's golden Impressionist era. I pass by a sweetly smiling blonde, who somehow jogs my memory back to a place I cannot pinpoint, being escorted by a large man in a suit. I wonder where that familiar ocean blue stare comes from. Is she an artist? Is she a dancer? Whoever she is, I've seen her in real time before. I blink away the struggle to recall my occurrence as we turn the corner, leading us all to my suite.
"I'm so hungry," I whisper to Buffy with another sneeze worthy sniffle. "Do you think I should tell them to get those little sandwiches again?"
