The day after Halloween I walk through the rain to see friends the way one sees friends now: Outside, at a distance, and, increasingly, in the cold. The day after Halloween used to be one of my favorite days. It often feels much spookier than the holiday itself, grey and final, nothing but a spare month between us and winter now. Decorations in the shape of vampires and zombies and ghouls hang awkwardly in doorways and hungover partiers stagger home clutching bagels and gatorade, halfway transformed backward from a witch or a pumpkin or a slutty topical reference into a normal person washing off their makeup, falling asleep on a couch or putting on a face for work, back into the dull and known world again.
ghost town
ghost town
ghost town
The day after Halloween I walk through the rain to see friends the way one sees friends now: Outside, at a distance, and, increasingly, in the cold. The day after Halloween used to be one of my favorite days. It often feels much spookier than the holiday itself, grey and final, nothing but a spare month between us and winter now. Decorations in the shape of vampires and zombies and ghouls hang awkwardly in doorways and hungover partiers stagger home clutching bagels and gatorade, halfway transformed backward from a witch or a pumpkin or a slutty topical reference into a normal person washing off their makeup, falling asleep on a couch or putting on a face for work, back into the dull and known world again.