Meet Dorothy.

It was late in the afternoon, somewhere between four and five o'clock. The sun was slowly creeping towards the horizon, and the chilly wind of the autumn dusk whipped around Henry's face. He was sitting in one of those white plastic lawn chairs, which he'd leaned back against the sliding door, and he had his feet propped up on the balcony railing. The balcony was small. It was hardly wide enough to move around on, but he was glad he had one. He enjoyed the fresh air – although it smelled like a bad mixture of greasy Chinese food and old garbage, it was a welcome relief from the stuffy air inside the apartment.

As the shadows lengthened and the sun sunk lower and lower, Henry could feel the temperature dropping. The cool wind whipped across his face as he sat his chair down on all four legs and stood up. Oh, he was stiff. He hated his god forsaken mattress. In fact, he hated this god forsaken town. How he ended up here, he could barely fathom. But that was another story.

Henry opened the sliding door and went inside. The apartment was neat and tidy, just the way Henry liked it. He walked through the kitchen, which also served as a social room, dining room, and entrance to the apartment, and turned into the bathroom. It was dark in the windowless bathroom, and the light above the mirror dimly illuminated the small space. Next to the sink sat a set of drawers. Henry opened the top drawer and gazed at its contents. Red lipstick, fake eyelashes, eyeshadow, eyeliner, blusher, powder. A box of fake French-manicured fingernails. A bottle of cheap drugstore perfume. A pair of eyebrow tweezers and an eyelash curler.

He started with the eyes. First he drew the eyeliner on, just thick enough for it to be noticeable. Then he drew a thin line of eyelash glue around each eyelid before gingerly planting the eyelashes on, one by one. He had mastered this task, now, after quite some practice. He looked through his eyeshadow options, and chose a sparkle-y lavender one; he dusted his eyelids with it. Next, he picked up with powder. He brushed it all over his clean-shaven face before putting blusher on the apples of his cheeks. He was almost ready now.

He checked his eyebrows – had any stray hairs sprouted since the last time he'd plucked? Of course, he found a couple. He picked up the tweezers and plucked uncooperative hairs out, one by one. Setting the tweezers gingerly back in the drawer, Henry picked up the fake fingernails. He sat on the closed toilet seat and rested his fingers on his lap as he glued each fingernail to each finger. Like the eyelashes, he'd mastered this task; it took him only a matter of minutes.

Standing again, he picked up the red lipstick from the drawer. This was the one thing he absolutely hated, and he absolutely hated it because it reminded him of his mother. His mother, in turn, reminded him of his family. And Henry hated his family. They'd kicked him out when they'd learned he was gay – and his mother, who'd loved him so much up until that point, told him that she hoped she'd never see him again. Henry had been heartbroken.

He held the lipstick in his hands, running his fingers over the plastic green case. It was Clinique lipstick – the same kind his mother wore. As much as he hated his mother, he couldn't tear himself away from the lipstick. Plus, it was an essential factor in his makeup. He opened the tube and applied it carefully to his lips, smacking them together when he was finished.

Henry put the top back on the tube and put it into the drawer. Closing the drawer, he surveyed himself in the mirror. His face was ready. Now he just needed his hair and an outfit.

Then he would be ready. He would leave the apartment and hang around the Washington Heights neighborhood. No one would know it was him – he looked pretty legit. Plus, no one would recognize introverted, shy Henry's connection with a young, dolled-up night-dweller named Dorothy.