Diversification #2
Hey, he’d said, noticing her at the dining table. You can use my office, if you’d like, he offered, inclining his head down the hall as he’d tapped through emails on his phone.
I’m alright, she’d said. She tried to focus on her screen as he headed towards his bedroom, the en suite. Through open doors, she heard
the distant sound of the shower turning on.
He’d given her space, that day. After he’d emerged, running a towel through his wet hair, he made fresh coffee, brought her
another mug; she noticed how he’d poured oat milk into it. As he’d gone into his office to work, the sound of phone calls
came through the half-ajar door. Like the reassurance that he was there, if she needed him.
Even as she’d felt the pull towards him, she’d let herself take space to herself, working through her draft. Through it all,
she felt the sense of settling. Through the recurring rise and fall of grief—a swell that made tears sting, as she’d gnawed
on her cuticles, flicking open her phone, looking at the photo again—she could feel the difference, observe changes. As if
the body that welcomed her back after last night—the mind, its thoughts—wasn’t so angry, so spiteful.
Exhaustion, too, though.
As the sun had set, Lili stifled a yawn, looking up from her screen. Aleksandr was in the kitchen, making dinner. Closing her computer, Lili padded over to him. Coming up behind him, she ran a hand up his back. The soft cotton of his black shirt was warm under her fingers.
What can I help with? she’d asked, peering around him at the stove.
Nothing, he’d said. There are vegetables in the oven, and the rice will be done when they are. I wasn’t sure what you’d like.
No, that’s perfect, she’d said, resting her cheek against his back.
After dinner, she swirled her wineglass, half-empty. Are you done with work for the night?
He’d nodded, taking a drink of wine. A dry white, and he hadn’t poured himself another glass after she’d declined a second.
Want to watch a movie or something? she’d asked.
Whatever you’d like.
On the couch, she’d gotten her computer out. No TV, huh? she commented, pulling up Netflix.
I don’t have much free time, he replied. Lili nestled into his arm around her, swinging her legs over his lap. Her fingers skated over the trackpad, scrolling
through films and shows. A bit unsure, residual sadness welled up now that it was dark out, like heartache waiting. Her phone,
resting on the couch beside her; that photograph, there.
What would you like to watch? he’d asked.
She’d shrugged, passing the computer to him. Something light, I don’t know. Sweet, I guess.
Aleksandr nodded, typing in a title.
Lili laughed, a quiet sound as the opening credits started. You want to watch this?
What’s wrong with this?
Reliving your youth in London?
I can assure you, I was not running a bookshop off Portobello Road in the nineties.
No, just sleeping with anything that moved in a mile radius of you.
Quiet, Lili, he’d said, gesturing at the screen. Against his side, she felt warm. You’ll miss important plot points.
It was a sweet film, easy to laugh with. She’d half-watched it during undergrad when she and Jackie both came down with the
flu after finals.
Every so often, Lili glanced at her phone, tucked against her leg. She opened Jane’s text as a dinner scene played in the film. She sent a brief response: (9:09 p.m.) Thanks, hope all’s well. Looking at the photograph, she rested her head against Aleksandr’s chest, distant dialogue on-screen.
Like exposure, as she looked at it again: draining out the pain, trying to create room for the love of it.
Is that them? he’d asked.
Lili nodded. Yeah, she’d whispered. Yeah, it is.
Turning onto India Street now, Lili hears a familiar voice call her name.
“Li!” It’s Amina, hanging out the window. “The buzzer’s broken, I’ll throw you the keys—Jamie, babe, get out of the way—”
“Marwan, you better have fucking coffee,” James warns, as Amina angles around him. “There’s so much we need to fucking do
for this party, I’m nauseous thinking about it.”
Lili laughs, catching the silver keys, metal gleaming in the morning sunlight.
“I’ve got you,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“Left Daddy to fend for himself?” Amina asks, reaching for the Campari.
Lili laughs, glancing over at Aleksandr.
Across the party, he’s listening to her college roommate Varsha. His drink—whiskey that James frantically tracked down—is
still half-full. He actually looks interested in the conversation. When Lili left her group of friends, sitting crowded on
the battered leather couches by the windows, Varsha had been discussing the current state of Poland’s Ukrainian refugee crisis
on the ground; she’d recently been on assignment in the region as a junior field producer, earning her stripes as a war correspondent.
As Lili watches, Elijah—one of their old classmates—says something, cutting off Varsha. Irritation skates over her face; Aleksandr
pointedly directs a question to her again.
The party is packed. It’s a gorgeous old industrial loft, Amina’s painting studio, and the ideal spot for big parties.
The exposed brick walls are washed white; huge windows look over Greenpoint, towards the city; greenery is everywhere, monstera, ferns, the towering fiddle-leaf fig tree in the corner, stick of incense crumpled in its dirt.
The place is usually full of Amina’s massive, half-finished canvases.
They’re tucked away now, carefully settled in the storage room.
They’d spent most of the day prepping for the party. Ami, fuck no, I’m not mopping the floors before we have a hundred people over, Jackie had protested. Now, the huge place is packed, hot and dark: all their old Columbia friends mixed in with Amina’s art
crowd, the staff from Hassan’s current restaurant, what looks like Jamie’s entire college crew team and classmates from his
Dalton days, a bunch of Jackie’s fellow survivors from when she used to serve at Spring Place. The open kitchen is stocked,
sinks full of ice and beer, one of their line-cook friends playing bartender, already half-drunk; too-loud music thrums through
the floor, heavy bass from the speakers rumbling under Lili’s feet, an inexplicable mix of pounding reggaeton and trap. Shrieks
of welcome as more people arrive, bringing with them the pungent drift of weed, dancing getting out of hand, sticky floor
underfoot; people rubbing their noses as they come out of the bathroom; cracked iPhone screens, flash of cameras; shouted
conversations. Lili knows most everyone, exchanging bright smiles of recognition as she’d followed Amina towards the makeshift
bar.
Aleksandr couldn’t be more out of place, but there’s something in how he inhabits space here. Anywhere, really: tall, authoritative,
clearly different—black linen shirt still too refined, even with the sleeves rolled up, shoes still too fucking expensive.
She’d rolled her eyes when she ran downstairs to let him up when he’d arrived. Really? she’d said, trying not to seem too appreciative. He’d laughed, drawing her closer to kiss her. Nice to see you too, Lili.
He doesn’t blend in, but he’s at ease. Unaffected by how he stands out: expecting it, relaxed with the attention.
And the sense, too, of how he’s fitting into her life: different, but somehow—somehow—congruent. Math that is surprising yet coherent. It’s remarkably easy—watching him with her friends, feeling fine leaving
them together while she gets drinks, not concerned about whatever conversation might elapse in her absence. Already looking
forward to going home with him.
Lili looks away, unscrewing a bottle of vermouth.
“I think he can take care of himself,” she says to Amina, eyeballing a glug into her Solo cup.
“I’m astounded we finally got to meet him.”
“You’ve met him,” Lili counters. “That time at the bar.”
Beside them, Jackie snorts, squeezing lime into her gin and tonic. “Right,” she says. “Across a crowded FiDi bar, before he
took you home.”
“It would’ve been nice to see him on your birthday, too, but I guess you did a house call, that time?” Amina muses.
“Stop,” Lili implores, but she hides a grin behind a sip of her drink. She’s grateful, too, that Amina isn’t resurfacing their
bathroom conversation from upstate; that she’d sized Aleksandr up, when Lili led him over to her friends, through the party,
before asking: Do you execs prefer handshakes or firm nods of acknowledgment? I’ve got both on offer. It had made Aleksandr laugh, Amina looked pleased with herself, and Lili relaxed. As Aleksandr greeted James, who he already
knew, the squeeze of Amina’s hand, grasping hers, had made Lili feel like Amina had her back, protected; supported. Trusting
that Lili knew what she was doing.
“Fine, fine,” Jackie relents. “Come on, let’s dance, I love this song.”
“Do you have any idea what these lyrics are saying?” Amina asks. “Did any of your high school Spanish stick with you? It’s
straight dirty talk, it’s filthy.”
“Isn’t it glorious? I let the music guide me,” Jackie whines, starting to sway. “I have no need for lyrics, when I feel things
this elementally, this fundamentally—come on, Lili—”
“I’m good,” Lili says, laughing as Jackie tries to tug her towards the dancing.
“I’m sure Aleksandr would enjoy it,” Amina says, wicked gleam in her eyes as she follows Jackie.
“Goodbye,” she says emphatically, winding through the crowd back towards the couches.
“—I’m just saying, the decline of liberal democracy isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“Christ, Elijah,” Lili says, resting a hand on Aleksandr’s shoulder as she perches on the armrest beside him. “This is a party.”
Elijah scowls. “The struggle never rests,” he says. Around her waist, she feels Aleksandr’s arm settle.
“The struggle for what, exactly?” she retorts. “Last week, you were saying ISIS had merit as a viable state.”
“No, no, what I was saying was that Jesus was also a radical in the desert.”
Under her hand, Lili feels Aleksandr’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.