Rosa Vasquez

Twenty-seven days.

At 04:42 a.m. I’m standing on the rooftop the moment when Brooklyn acts like it's pure and the city allows the deception to linger briefly. The skyline appears still. I am aware of the truth. Each red traffic signal, every blinking bodega light every shadow that extends a bit too far over the sidewalk is observing. Waiting. Ticking down alongside us. The atmosphere is heavy with the scent of pavement and sizzling pork, from a kitchen three stories below yet ...