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ABIGAIL MANGIN 27
A line of people stood outside the store for hours just for a look inside. The Visage devotees wore T-shirts featuring the Visage icon, a Libra symbol. The setting sun on the horizon.
Cecil stood by the store, worriedly clutching his posters. Hot dogs and garbage roasted beneath the sun. Honking cars, groan- ing homeless, and the relentless rumble of eight million chatter- ing tourists. People shoving, rubbing against each other like sar- dines on crowded streets. All while Gap and Amazon advertised on giant, glittery billboards above.
He was an ant in the concrete jungle, shyly holding out a poster.
“Sorry, I’m from out of town,” the man said, shoving Cecil’s hand back.
“But...That’s fine. You might see her. Just in case, please. Please just take it.”
He tried again, but the man shook his head and kept walking, checking his subway map to avoid his eyes.
“Missing! Missing girl. My best friend’s missing,” Cecil shouted, drowned out by the stand owner screaming, “Hot dogs. Hot dogs, come an’ get ’em.”
A conspicuous billboard hung above him—his godmother, the founder of Visage, adorned in a stingray-skin gown. Perdonna was signed in delicate red cursive over her bare legs.
Missing posters littered the sidewalk as people discarded them, feet stomping over Annabelle’s face.
A girl leaned over from the Visage line, wrapped her arm around Cecil, and smiled, flashing her disposable camera at them. He handed her a poster, and she took a photo of that too.
Pedestrians pointed at him. Cameras flashed like tiny stars.
“Help me! Please. My friend’s missing. Why are you taking pictures of me?”
People stopped to watch, a crowd forming around him. Paparazzi swooped in from behind.
“Brah, check your silver cabinets,” a stranger jeered. “You totally dismembered that girl.”
He tried to ignore it. “Her name is Annabelle Leigh,” Cecil said. “She likes the Plaza Hotel...so she might be there.”