Aishamanne Williams
Daydream on Orchard Street The girls on the Lower East Side were vapid in a way that was almost impressive. It was calculated, their airiness; carefully curated and thoughtfully deployed, usually just to get them into the bars on Ludlow with $25 margaritas and C-list rappers on the guest list. Or to get backstage access at said rapper’s concerts in hole-in-the-wall venues, hoping to be leaving in said rapper’s car at the end of the night (or at least in the car of any other Instagram-verified member of his entourage) instead of stumbling toward Myrtle-Broadway in their micro mini skirts and Dior heels. It was a disguise that could unlock any door guarded by a man. And that was most of the doors here, literally and figuratively. So I wasn’t surprised when Kimora had shown up to the theater tonight on Timmy’s arm, sashaying down the aisle showing off the new pair of hips she returned with from their vacation in DR. In the few times I’d met her before tonight, it had become clear that she was adept at feigning the particular brand of obliviousness that translated here as charisma. And the men on the Lower East Side were as lacking in integrity as the girls were in substance, so of course Timmy made her his girlfriend. They were attracted to obliviousness because any girl too aware of their true character and intentions could become problematic.
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