One of the benefits of living in this city of angels is that it's Halloween all year round. Not that people here are like living dead, but they're all posing as something they're not. The sad part of it is that walking down Sunset or Melrose, only the dressed up street performers seem to know and accept the fact that their pretty exteriors are fake.
This year, Chloe and I pretended we were old fashioned models, wearing vintage Chanel and dark sunglasses, smoking menthol cigarettes using mother's old Breakfast at Tiffany's style holders. We wandered the crowded streets arm in arm, fantasizing about a long lost era, and I missed my father. I drank too much cheap Russian vodka in another naive attempt to forget, by now I should know it only makes it worse.
Hernan woke me up the next morning, asking if it was a pleasant dream. "You were moaning". I only remembered the smell of gasoline and the birds, that minacious cloud of ravens silently circling over my head in the dark.
"Yes, I guess it was".
In my dream I wore a wedding dress, under the white silk sheets in my bed I was naked. Chloe had already left.