It is the witching hour of ghosts, demons. It is pitch dark outside. The windows reflect the interior of the consignment store only. It is nighttime. I am prone to superstition and though, the witching hour occurs at midnight, in the suddenly black winter evening, the hour of the supernatural is here. The sun sets in late afternoon, leaving us alone with black magic by six o’clock.

To dress-up is our only protection in the silent hour. We are fashionable, or aspire to be. We wear a twenty-first century costume: a floor-length strapless gown, covered by a synthetically-treated lamb shawl, an elastic-banded bracelet, a pair of black-armed sunglasses, a blonde wig and a velvet clutch. We pretend that we are going to a gala.

We are decadent. We have nothing to do; our lives are shallow. We attend parties, receive telegrams, court men and women. We ruminate on every comment and glance. Occurrences that have never taken place, but are speculated to have taken place, stretch to epic proportion, to over five-hundred pages, if this were a novel. 

Vintage bejeweled bracelet, Soho

Judith Leiber clutch, Soho

Chanel velvet clutch, Soho

Charlotte Olympia transparent clutch with interchangeable pouches, Soho

Squirrel models Linda Farrow shades and Helen Yarmak fringed lamb coat, Soho

Squirrel models a Ferragamo strapless, sequined gown, Soho