He was a Ghostbuster and I was a Banana in Pajamas, which from what I can tell is a magical combination. It was a night to remember: the concrete bench, the Gothic building, the full [strike through]* gibbous [strike through] crescent [strike through] moon, his charming jumpsuit, my comfortable shoes.
My God...those were comfortable shoes...
Everything is more intense in costume. Costumes expose the modest and impassion the mundane. Ordinary tasks become extraordinary experiences. Meals are more scrumptious. Conversation is freshly inspired. Costumed crowds form for no reason other than to see and be seen.
We took refuge from the crowd on the concrete bench. We had seen and been seen, and we felt satisfied with the culmination of the day’s efforts and excitements. Satisfied, we sat.
The party favor that served as my stem—a detail of which I was particularly proud—had fulfilled its duty, and now it felt funny sticking out of my ponytail. The yellow circles on my checks had all but disappeared. He had lost his Proton Gun. The glitter that I had so liberally applied to myself had migrated through the course of the evening and now, he sparkled.
Satisfied, we sat. Then we shifted. And then. There was. Nothing [strike through]. Everything [strike through]. Us.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
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