Half The Evening.

It's 5 O'clock; almost dark out. You'd had trouble finding the keys you dropped, on the stoop, amongst the leaves blown over the steps from the trees beside the house. Not eaten a thing, all day long. Just coffee. A bag of pretzels, or something like them. So you make a bowl of cereal, only there's no milk. Or rather there's only skimmed, half-fat milk. And you suppose that's fine. If you don't mind the taste of cereal in water. Which you do, but your pour the bowl anyway. You put your jacket on the back of the sofa. And the dog comes out; from the bedroom, from his bed, and jumps up; curls up in the corner, head against the arm; taking up most of the seating. Sighs. And you take off your shoes, and sit next to the dog. And you have on wool socks. And it's Halloween. Which you hate. Or rather: are growing less impressed by each year.

Going into the Pharmacy around the corner, picking up a prescription she needs for the following morning, and the place is filled with dickheads in Werewolf masks. Not the kids so much, but full-grown adults dressed as goblins, or robots, or Al Roker, or something. And you've noticed, maybe only so much in the last few years, but when it comes to dressing up for Halloween most girls like to go as sluts. Or cats. Or at the very best: Slutty Cats. Tails in the air. And although you do not dress up, you have standards, and wonder why there are so many fucking Mickey Mouse ears, and cardboard Transformers, and even some guy dressed as an Ear. Maybe you don't get it. Maybe it's a riot amongst their friends. Probably not. Regardless, you have standards, and the fact is: It's Halloween. Go as something dead. Doesn't matter what it is, what you want to be, just be dead. You'd like to go as a cowgirl? Boring, but okay fine. Go as a dead one. Going in drag? A dead Tranny then. A cat? For fuckssake; if you must, but at least one that's been hit by the bus.

You've been thinking, despite it all, that maybe you should work on some kind of Cat Roadkill costume. Just to make a point. But you know it will go over the heads. You know you won't bother.

There were two witches, and Britney Spears as a Skinhead, in the tampon aisle for chrissakes.

The cereal bowl in the sink, you take a beer from the fridge, and open the screen to the fire escape. The heating is back on, but it's unseasonably warm, so you'd like to take a few minutes of fresh air before the sun goes down. You're out there for maybe five minutes, before the first drops begin down your face; filling your open pores with rain. Which is probably, according to most everyone in the 90's, toxic. Pores which have opened from the heat of the sweat-box apartment. And maybe the milk, if milk opens your pores.

"Watch for a man with pock marks. That's holes. In the face. Call this number immediately"

You think about the news. Laugh a little.

And then: you take the beer back inside, and into the bathroom. Running the taps warm, shaving your face and finishing the second half of the bottle. You take another from the fridge and into a hot shower. Washing the grease from your hair. Washing the dirt from your nails. Washing the milk from your chin. You'll be leaving soon; cashing a check- for barely anything worth your while- on your way to meet her, and a friend. Heading to a film. It's the most you can muster: A horror movie on Halloween.