As my sister and I grew up itonly got more elaborate. When I was six she dumped a violet wig on myhead. A left-over from Halloween. Made me so proud. ...e grew closertogether, my sister and I. Practically inseparable. And over the yearsthe witch club lost members. But my sister and I kept it alive.Sure. I admit.By the time I was eleven the cross-dressing part became weird.But for me, it was a small price to pay.My best friend was my sister and this was how we connected.Eventually, it became too. Her head was lowered over the microphone, her long black hair covering her face. Then suddenly, her voice rang through the stadium. It was that same smooth, silky voice Sherri remembered singing to her. So long ago. And then the hair was thrown back and her facial features were revealed. They seemed to be chiseled in stone, such perfect angles, proportion. Her body, to die for. Sherri gaped at her quietly, not noticing that her friend was studying her intently. When the song came to a slow,. Now that she has seen me, and I have seen her I know now that there is no turning back. I have to meet her to see if she feels the same way as I do. Taking control and standing I straighten myself up and ease a T shirt over my torso. The moment of truth has arrived. I exit my flat walking down the narrow corridors to where she lives. With a trembling hand and heart beating in my chest I knock gently on her door………!It swings open slowly but there is no sign of her. I enter her flat locking. ”“Bien sure. My name is Sami and I will be your guide today.”“And where are your from, Sami?”“Senegal, monsieur.”Relieved that no other shoppers had entered the lift car, I began to study the panels. I heard the car’s doors glide shut. The sales levels being offered were styled by historical references: The Tudors, The Borgias, Cleopatra on the Nile, Horatio Nelson, de Sade’s Dungeon of Punishment and something called The Hall of Hollywood Screen Goddesses. Now the lift boy was standing beside.