Distressed Assets #5
of sunset falls across her face. The man turns, and a smile breaks across his handsome face as he draws her into his arms,
kissing her temple, and the woman laughs as he kisses her cheeks, her lips, such obvious happiness at seeing her, before they
walk away, down the street together.
Lili breathes, shaking like she’s run a marathon.
It’s not him.
Another man, waiting for another woman.
She pushes their building door open, nearly runs through the courtyard, races up the stairs—panic at her heels.
It takes her a moment to wrench open their apartment door, shutting it hard behind her, leaning back against the heavy wood, trying to breathe, trying to breathe—and she hadn’t realized how tightly she was carrying it, until her heart leapt in the street: the fear and the hope—the stupid
fucking hope—that he’d still come after her—and she’d forgotten, she’d fucking forgotten, in the blur of departure, that this was his city, the city he’d inhabited in his twenties—her age, his youth, the nineties, in these streets—decades removed, but still,
memories he’d shared with her that snap into place, immediate and intimate, just as she’s trying to escape him, outrun them—
“Hey!” It’s James, leaning into the hall. He has a drink in hand, orange glow of Aperol. “You find the corner shop okay?”
She nods, trying to soothe her heartbeat. “Yeah, all good. When—when do we have to leave for dinner?”
“In about thirty?” he says, glancing at his watch. The sunlight streams into the kitchen behind him. “We were thinking we
could walk, it’s gorgeous out.”
“Lili!” Amina calls her name from the sunny kitchen. Her face is fresh, washed hair in a tortoiseshell claw clip. She’s wearing
a blue dress. “Want a drink?”
“Sure, yeah—give me ten, I’ll just get changed—”
In the bathroom, she splashes cold water on her face. When she brushes her own cheekbone, she stiffens, and grasps the cold
porcelain sink.
She can’t even touch herself—innocent touches, brush of hair behind her ears, water on her face—without the flinch of remembering
him.
Through doors, and halls, she can hear the click of Amina’s mules, a bit of laughter from James.
Soundless, Lili chokes back sobs. These painful, catching sounds in her throat, this tiny room.
She cannot cry.
Just a moment, she thinks.
Just a moment longer.
She knows how to weather instability. And she does not believe in self-correcting markets, inertia, laissez-faire.
Aggressive intervention, forceful correction: These are tools of economics, in crisis.
The question always is when to intervene.
“Greene,” James tells the host. “Une réservation pour trois.”
The restaurant is sultry and dark. Tiny tables, crowded groups, people smoking outside, flung-open windows that let in the
last of the dying sunset, gleam of candles, mirror behind the bar reflecting back the room, again and again: its attractive
din, hot with bodies, wine in glasses.
Liquid, languid, nocturnal; bruised-purple evening, lavender dusk. It’s a buzzy neighborhood, the warren of streets below
the Canal Saint-Martin, gentrification creeping eastwards. Younger crowds, the wink of the Bastille over rooftops, as they’d
walked, forgoing the Métro. Through Place de la République, dirtier, grittier than the rest of the city—more alive near night,
Marianne statue towering over the square, streets with kebab counter serve, bustling bars, the whizz of bikes, lazy drone
of French ambulances. Blooms of graffiti, aggressive scrawls on the side of buildings; roar of laughter from friends sitting
at cafés, half-full wine bottles; the sudden rush of the Métro, through street grating underfoot. The sense of Paris exhaling
as evening falls: a low sigh, some sly grin of teeth.
As she’d gotten ready—Amina drinking on her bed, helping her decide what to wear; James on an impromptu FaceTime call in the
hall with Hassan—Lili had tried to find that familiar anticipation for a night out. She’d gulped down her drink, faster than
she should on an empty stomach, while Amina carded through her clothes. Thin, superficial excitement grew with the alcohol,
but she grasped after it, both desperate and determined.
I love this dress on you, Amina said, lifting a black slip from Lili’s suitcase.
Got this at Awoke a few months ago, right?
It’s perfect. Lili swallowed, smiled. Inside, a howl.
She hadn’t been able to point out when she’d last worn this dress, a May evening in
another city, another bar.
“Bien s?r,” the host says now, ticking off the reservation ledger. “Suivez-moi . . .”
Lili stumbles as she follows, already a little drunk. Amina rights her, giggling. “Steady there,” she says, tangling their hands together. The brilliant blue of her dress catches the light. Lili feels Jamie’s hand hover at her shoulder, too.
Over the din, Amina babbles in Lili’s ear: “. . . really young chef, up-and-coming—works with local farmers, thought you’d
like that, has really innovative dishes, does a ton of vegetable-forward stuff.” Behind the bar, bottles of liquor glow—cognac,
Chartreuse, absinthe, foreign labels—interrupted by the crush of the cocktail shaker, aggressive swing of the bartender’s
arm.
“How are you feeling?” James asks Lili, shaking out his napkin. Fluid French had flown as they’d sat down at a table nestled
in the corner, as Amina had nodded along to their server’s recounting of the day’s specials, as she’d ordered a bottle of
wine. Sancerre, yeah? she’d confirmed, looking at them. Their server set down a carafe of water, sweating glass, white cloth.
“Fine.” Lili nods. The world blurs a little with the motion. She grasps for her wineglass, taking a drink. The alcohol burns
in her throat. “Good, yeah, I’m fine—just some jet lag, I’ll shake out of it.”
“Are you feeling up to roaming around a bit tomorrow, before Ami preps for Perrotin?”
“Whatever you’d like, really.”
“Well, what’ve you always wanted to do, when you think of Paris?” he prompts.
I spent a lot of time in churches—
She smiles, shakes her head. “You can make plans without me. I’m crashing this vacation, I want to give you space.” She feels
like a child again, trying so hard to keep her presence from being a burden.
Amina frowns. “You know, we’d like to spend time with you.”
She forces a little laugh. “You don’t have to do that, really. I want you two to have fun.”
“We want you here—”
“I’m here,” Lili insists, panic blistering in a grin that hurts her teeth. “Right now, I’m here.”
Her friends exchange glances; she realizes her smile is too broad, too forced. Through the growing haze of alcohol, the disorienting
heaviness of travel, she feels how they orient around her, trying to insulate her—trying to read her; trying to be soothing
rather than suffocating.
Except she wants to be suffocated—she wants to stop breathing—
“Tell me what you want to do tomorrow,” she says, pouring another glass of wine. “Please,” she adds, with the best smile she
can muster.
These friendships, things still left for her to ruin—she can’t lose this, too.
She can’t.
Lili gets drunk.
The wine stays steady, cocktails following after the bottle finishes. The restaurant is intimate but bustling, hot room growing
louder as the night darkens, bar getting busier, the glisten of clean white dishes carried out from the kitchen, cluttered
trays of oysters, natural wine glowing orange, cigarette smoke from the street, last violet sunset soar over the buildings.
Their plates are cleared, new dishes, and she can eat a bite or two, before her stomach turns, and she grasps for her drink
again, ringing laughter that tastes metallic—her face hurts with forced smiles, but she gives more, lets the atmosphere, the
noise, push her further—laughs at Jamie’s impression of Amina standing so close to a Klein monochrome last time they were
in Paris, that a gallery attendant told her off—“Ami, your nose was almost blue, you were practically defacing French cultural heritage”—and Amina’s quick quip back, which Lili doesn’t catch—a burst of
laughter from the party at the table beside them that overhears the retort, Amina’s sharp grin, a keen edge of white noise
building in her own ears—and she glances out the window, face tilted to get some fresh air, the glow, the dark joy of a summer
night, Paris has a weight to it, and I was thinking we could go on a trip—unsteady, unstable, and she tries to swallow a breath—
Fresh dishes settle on the tablecloth. “Fuck, this is delicious,” James groans.
It is gorgeous food, inventive small plates: fennel shaved like parmesan over dollops of risotto; shiso sprouts, purslane leaves, purple radishes; briny anchovies, drizzle of green olive oil; amid the refill of water, squat cocktail glasses luminous with vermouth, she pushes food around her plate, but does not eat: instead laughs harder, grins broader—and when her friends ask again about what she wants to do tomorrow, she instead leans into their plans, will go along with anything they want, the museums, markets, sights—and they’re discussing the string of galleries near their apartment, “You might love it, similar to that Mehretu exhibit we saw a few weeks ago,” making Lili inhale sharply, but then Amina mentions a gallery contact at Almine Rech who’d been interested in her work, asked her to stop by while she was in town—and Lili grasps her hand, happy, happy for her friend, clumsy with the desire to tumble headfirst into this joy for someone else. She tips her head back to finish
the rest of her wine—no, a cocktail now—then suddenly the check’s on the table, and Lili tries to grasp for her wallet—but
James has already given his card, waving away her protests, then they’re standing, saying goodbye to the table next to them,
she’s stumbling, Jamie’s easy laugh as he balances her elbow, a glance of concern from Amina, dulled by her own drinks but
there, and Lili just laughs, hooks her arms through theirs, I’m good, I’m great!—
Out in the street, Lili spins. Heavy thoughts start to clutter, with the fresh air.