New York City’s unseasonably warm September finally ended today. Leaves crunched beneath my feet when I walked around my backyard this morning. I’m debating what sweatshirt to wear to a dinner party tonight. The mosquitos might finally be dying. This should be an exciting venture for me: a return of layers, Halloween around the corner, my birthday in November…
But it’s officially fall, and, instead, I’m sick to my stomach.
I ran into Claudia around 2 am the other night at Union Pool, a Williamsburg bar she described as a “meat market” for early-to-mid-20-something-year-olds (she’s right, it is).
The anniversary of her boyfriend’s murder is right around the corner. Naturally, she’s dreading it.
“The lead-up to the one-year mark was more stressful than the actual day,” I said, adding that this time of year is hard for me now too.
She gave me a knowing look. “The weather shift.”
I nodded.
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