Issue 02
Presence Olivia Brandwein Peter cranes his body over the bathroom sink to get a closer look. The sunshine through the window and the light coming down from the exposed bulb overhead highlight the deepening creases across his forehead and the long parentheses that frame his mouth. Never mind them, they only help make him more expressive. Sandy gray hairs peak out from underneath his jet-black dye, and others have decided to abandon his scalp all together. But today is Saturday. Today they won’t matter underneath his hat. He begins the careful ritual of brushing his teeth, shaving, and moisturizing so that no spot is left uncleaned and unanointed. And then it is time. First, he coats his face in white powder. These days, he orders it specially from France. The stuff from Sephora won’t cut it anymore. Then, he drags his black eyeliner into diamonds around his eyes and creates his new eyebrows. He tests them out, raising one then the other, watching his wrinkles ripple with satisfaction. Finally, a pop of color. With his red lipstick in place, he returns to his bedroom and shimmies into his black tights, black and white striped shirt, and black suspenders, careful not to disturb his masterpiece. Pierre dons his hat, no, his beret, and then he’s off. The walk to Columbus Park is pleasant and brisk. Pierre is a fast walker and, even on weekdays, he enjoys miming his frustrations behind the backs of those cretinous slow-walkers that now crowd the city. As he crosses the busy Court Street traffic, the gleaming white stone of Borough Hall comes into full view. Fuck de Blasio, he mutters to himself, almost betraying his craft and parting his lips. He doesn’t quite remember where his hatred stems from anymore, but he’s sure it is correct and finds it a heartwarming unifier of New York’s diverse population. 28
