The radio called for a snow storm on the Friday before Halloween. The narrow winding 18th street of Adam?s Morgan was deserted. No cars were parked hap hazard on either side of the littered road. It looked accessible yet, forlorn as the woman in high heels, short leather skirt and bright red lipstick walking the same street for the 5th time that evening. Like her, Adams Morgan didn?t have its usual share of rowdy, Friday evening clients. The first flake of snow spiraled down in slow motion and on to her heavily mascara-d eyelashes. She brushed it off impatiently and peered at the sky. The sky which had darkened from a cloudy grey to a charcoal black began releasing flecks of white?at first a reluctant few white crumbs which rapidly changed into a relentless drift. The sudden swirl of snow turned her peroxide blonde hair into platinum silver. She cursed loudly as she tried to salvage her hair spray patting the limp tendrils into place. Small damp patches appeared on her faux leather skirt as the snow melted on her warm spots. Her fishnet stockings had frozen stiff cutting into her calves and thighs while her worn out stilettos skidded dangerously on the slick uneven street. She tottered past the life less coffee shop and stood under the canopy of a bead shop. The store sign boasted of African beads, silver jewelry, hand crafted dolls and batik tee shirts. She was not dressed for the weather. She hadn?t planned on spending the night walking the street. After all it was the Friday before Halloween A few cars crawled past the bead shop ignoring her attempts at catching their attention. The last driver rolled down his window and gestured obscenely at her. Hopeful, she stepped out from under the canopy. But the car sped by.