Earnings Season #6
A loud burst of static—the system doesn’t work half the time—before: “Come on up!” Her friend’s voice squawks through, distorted
by crackling white noise. “I’m just finishing painting, then I’ll start packing.”
Lili’s mouth drops open. “Ami, what? Are you jok—”
The front door buzzes loudly, unlocking. Lili rolls her eyes, letting herself in.
In the airless cement stairwell, she takes the steps two at a time, her overnight bag banging against her hip. Up on the fourth
floor, Amina’s door is, reliably, unlocked.
“You know, you’re going to get robbed one of these days,” Lili announces, shouldering open the door. “Oh, Jesus—”
A huge explosion of flowers greets her, first thing as she walks in. It’s frothing and overflowing from a squat, luxurious
vase on the kitchen counter: a bouquet full of creamy white and pale pink blossoms, ranunculus, garden roses, camellias—practically
dripping with expense, it could be the centerpiece of a gala table.
“Who sent the wedding flowers?” she asks dryly.
Amina snorts; Lili leans out around the bouquet and catches sight of her friend in the corner of her living room, painting
at an easel over by the window. “My grandparents,” she says. She’s in an oversized hoodie, curled up in a chair, one knee
drawn into her chest, leaning against it as she paints. Her long black hair—straighter than Lili’s, but part of what makes
people sometimes mistake them as related—is twisted into a loose braid. Although the peonies Lili brought to her opening last
night pale in comparison to her grandparents’ bouquet, she spies the pink flowers sitting on the windowsill, in a mason jar
with clean water, right near Amina. “Congratulations gift for the show. It’s a little over-the-top. I think they’re finally
accepting that I’m not going to be a doctor, or a lawyer.”
Lili drops her bag on the ground, toeing off her shoes.
“How are they doing?” she asks, heading over to her friend.
In Amina’s apartment, she feels welcome, comfortable.
The worn red Isfahan carpet underfoot, countless nights started and ended here: pregaming before going out, and crashing on the bright green couch after hours of dancing.
High tin ceilings, sagging with age; exposed red brick; iron casement windows, the glimpse of the Judd Foundation up Mercer.
Crumpled tubes of Holbein and Sennelier paints litter the old coffee table, cluttered with mismatched used wineglasses, likely from last night’s post-gallery-opening festivities that Lili had opted out of.
She feels the urge to help clean up, take glasses into the kitchen; she’s spent so many nights here, it’s like a second home.
Amina’s parents bought the apartment for her in sophomore year, and Lili’s jaw had dropped the first time she walked in.
It’s not jealousy, nor judgment necessarily—although there is that, too: It’s a little insane, being twenty-three and owning this place, the liquid mobility of life lubricated by family money—so much as wistfulness, a shameful little longing, complicated in on itself: the concept of having parents who can take care of you, whether through their presence or their wealth; the fact that money can make Lili—with all her convictions, her personal beliefs—feel really fucking safe.
“Good, yeah,” Amina says. She’s examining her painting, hasn’t looked away from the canvas. “I think my parents are going
to visit Iran with them later this fall, depending on the state of the protests.”
Lili hums in acknowledgment. She takes a seat behind Amina, squeezing between her and the back of her chair. She wraps her
arms around her friend’s waist, nestling into the crook of her neck. She likes to watch Amina paint; loves her art so deeply.
It’s soothing to see it coming together. There are birds singing outside, streets still calm in the morning hours before SoHo
becomes a tourist trap. Nag Champa wafts through the air, burning steadily on the windowsill.
“How was it with your parents?” she asks, looking over the painting Amina is working on. It’s currently a wash of pale white—tinged
with green, some orange—its nascent form still taking shape on the canvas. Not yet fully intelligible to her outside gaze.
Amina grimaces, aggressively using a palette knife to work pigments together. “Fine,” she replies, absently settling a hand
on Lili’s clasped hands, wrapped around her waist. “They came, they saw, they left—parental duties fulfilled for the quarter.”
“What did they say about the art?”
“They asked me when I was going to finally sign with a dealer.”
“Oh.” She feels a twinge; she doesn’t always know what to say, navigating the parental disappointments of her friends. “I’m
sorry, that’s—that sounds a bit heartless?”
Amina shrugs, a little despondent. “I know what I’ll get from them at this point,” she says, leaning into the canvas.
She dabs yellow paint on the underside of a thick swath of white.
It gives it the illusion of dimension, coming alive like sunlight.
It doesn’t surprise Lili that Amina’s working, even though her show just opened yesterday; her work ethic, when it comes to her art, is surprisingly relentless.
“It’s nice they visited, made an appearance and an effort. ”
“Are you going to go with them to Iran?”
She gives a half nod, half shake. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll probably go home and visit LA, see my cousins while they’re
gone, ships in the night. I’ll see my grandparents another time. Maybe make a bit more of a trip of it, visit a few other
countries in the region, some relatives.”
“That would be a cool trip to take together some day,” Lili muses, resting her chin on Amina’s shoulder. “Like, in a few years.
Do some of the Middle East . . . I guess it depends on travel advisories, but I think I’d love that.” Watching Amina paint,
she feels calm, steady, her gaze relaxed. “Iran, Egypt, maybe Lebanon. I don’t have any immediate family members left, or
not that I know of. When I went into the system, my social workers kind of screwed me over on family contacts. It was well-intentioned,
I guess—they really don’t like placing kids internationally, especially if it’s not with immediate family, and in the middle
of a war zone. But maybe I can look into it now, more distant relatives. It might be worthwhile. My mum was close with her
godmother, I think.”
Amina is silent, still, paintbrush hovering over the canvas. After a few beats, Lili looks up at her, and she’s—staring at
Lili, frozen.
Lili frowns. “What?”
“No, nothing—nothing.” Amina quickly goes back to dabbing paint. “Oh, fuck, wrong color—I mean, yes, it really would be,”
she says, grabbing a wet rag from her easel shelf, carefully brushing away misplaced pigment. “A cool trip to take together,
I mean. Absolutely, sorry—it’s a great idea, totally—”
“You good?” Lili asks, amused by Amina’s completely uncharacteristic stumbling.
“Yes, yes—you’ve just—you’ve never . . .” She sighs, as if surrendering a ruse. “Well, you’ve never talked about that, before.
To me, I mean—about tracking down family relatives, the Middle East. Any of it.”
“Oh.” Lili shrugs. “I guess it’s just been on my mind.”
Amina laughs softly, setting her paintbrush and rag down. She turns to look at Lili. “You all okay?” she asks, wrapping an
arm around her.
“Yeah, I’m great, why?”
“Nothing, you just seem—very at ease.” Her tone has a careful tinge to it, cautious.
“Just excited for upstate, I suppose.”
Amina studies her. “You’ve spent the whole weekend with him, yeah?”
Lili nods, a little wary; she feels protective of the last couple days. “Yeah, why?”
Amina shakes her head. “Nothing.” Lili can’t entirely read her tone, but it’s warm, something affectionate and hidden in its
texture. “No reason.” She stands, untangling herself from Lili. “Do you want to help me pack? Jackie will kill us if we miss
the train, and I’m definitely going to blame it all on you.”
“Okay, this is us,” Jackie announces to Lili, pushing open the attic room door. “Sorry, Ami, but we’re calling dibs on the
bedroom, you and James get the couch.”
“Actually, Jamie has decided he’s sleeping outside,” Amina announces, leaning against the doorframe. “He brought camping gear,
wants to reconnect with nature.”
Lili laughs. “I don’t think a brand-new REI haul constitutes reconnecting with nature,” she comments, looking around the tiny
room. Sloped ceiling, dormer windows, old bed heaped with quilts, a glass milk bottle filled with wildflowers: a little mismatched,
a little rough around the edges, likely picked from the overgrown garden outside. The place is peaceful, pretty. “Jackie,
this is really cute,” she says. “Like, genuinely.”
“It’s alright.” Jackie smiles, setting her bag down. “Needs a lot of work, but my parents are really excited about it.”
“Was that excitement on your dad’s face?” Amina asks. “I couldn’t tell when we picked up the keys back in the city. I was
guessing more begrudging acceptance or pained tolerance?”
“No, you’re confusing that with reluctant acquiescence,” Lili corrects. “There’s this subtle difference in the depth of the
scowl.”
“Ah, right. When he’s really enthused, there isn’t a scowl. Just sort of a tolerant coldness that makes you rethink every
decision you’ve ever made—”
“Alright,” Jackie interrupts, trying not to laugh; it’s been a running joke since she’d broken down, belligerently drunk in freshman year, about how effusive and bubbly her psychiatrist mother is alongside her editor father’s terse silence, and whether divorce is always imminent or they’re incandescently happy.
“He just tends towards stoicism, okay? He actually thinks you two are delightful, he told me himself.”
“Using sign language?” Amina asks.
“Hilarious. But no, they’ve never been happier together and are starting to think about, like, fresh country air and retiring,
but would rather go straight to the grave than move to actual suburbia.”