Distressed Assets #6
But she hears her friends laugh—affectionate, kind, these warm gazes as they watch her, some twist in their smiles she doesn’t
want to unravel—and she grins back at them, because she knows how to do this—she knows how to make others smile, make them
momentarily happy in a way that makes her feel good, beneficial, a good person, for these people she loves, these people she cares about, rather than burden them with all her ugliness—and Lili reaches
for their hands—and then there’s Amina’s giggle, the night breeze, Jamie’s broad grin, as she tries to pull them after her,
“Come on!” and her heart feels swollen, and her ribs feel brittle, but she loves them, she loves them—this love for her friends, and
what her life might be, and has been—this has to be something, it has to still exist, somewhere, fucking somewhere—
Above them, the bruised sky, night that’s never fully dark, hangs over an old city.
At the boisterous bar down the street, James slips through the crowd to get them drinks. Before Lili can protest—she should
pay for something—Amina draws her towards the dancing. Lili closes her eyes, a glorious moment of heat and darkness, and lets
herself be led, weaving through bodies—hands, heart, actions, bodies capable of action—Lili shakes her head—a sudden, cold
toxic thought, her own actions—and keeps dancing, tangling her hands with Amina’s.
A cocktail presses into her palm—a Negroni, her usual.
Too much vermouth, not enough Campari, but it’s a good, harsh sting.
Lili gulps it down, ice nudging her nose as she drains it.
She keeps dancing, as the song changes, and the room grows heavier, and headier; loud, thick clouds of noise.
Amina makes a sudden exclamation of surprise, recognizing someone, known faces from her art world: “Yeah, we’re in town for a few days!
” A warm hand finds hers, and James is pulling Lili from the thick of dancing, insulated by his taller height, following Amina as she throws her arms around half-familiar friends, a flurry of introductions.
“Li, you haven’t met Pedro, right? Alma works at Zwirner, back in the city, but is doing a tour of duty at the European galleries—crazy, I didn’t know you were here? ”
The high summer heat cools outside as the night escalates inside, such an uproar, drinks, and joy, the clutter of conversations,
thick groups of friends. Lili is tucked warm under Jamie’s protective arm, still half-humming, half-dancing as she casts glances
over the crowd, the rapid blur of French too fast to understand, and there are more new names, new faces, mention of an exhibit,
something Amina has to see before she leaves, and the aggressive shout of orders at the bar, and someone goes for more drinks,
asks for requests—Pedro, one of the ones Amina knows. “Anything with mezcal!” Lili says, and he grins. “Not sure that’s reached
market saturation in France yet,” he says against her ear, leaning in, and James laughs, but pulls Lili closer into his side,
away from Pedro, giving her his own drink. “It’s a sidecar, I think?” he shouts over the noise, when she wrinkles her nose,
at the unexpected kick of lemon—and across the group, Amina looks hopeful, watching them, and Lili grins back, a feeling blurry
in her chest—it feels like a grin, it must look like a grin—
Her phone buzzes.
Consistent, a call—an incoming call—and Lili’s heart fucking leaps.
She almost drops her drink as she rushes to grab her phone out of her bag, a shock of clarity, cold, welcome and obvious logic—because it’s him, it has to be him, it has to be him—
“Hey, heathen,” James laughs, answering the group FaceTime call from his own phone; she sees the flash of Jackie’s red hair.
“We’re out, we’ll call you back tomorrow—yeah, no, I left the keys on your dresser—well, fucking obviously, your room is a
mess—”
“Excuse me,” Lili mumbles. She pushes past the group. “Need air.”
Sweaty skin, hair sticking to her neck, she stumbles out of the bar.
Outside, the fresh air is a superficial relief, as she grasps for her cigarettes. Her slip dress is insubstantial, rustled
by a hot breeze as she rummages for her lighter, lost somewhere in her bag. Alcohol lurches in her, too little food, along
with the searing agony of a bruise hit so hard. Her hands are shaking.
Fine, she’s fine. Just needs air, just needs a moment—a little drunk, she just forgot—she got confused—
“Fuck,” she whispers, coming up empty-handed.
Come on, love. Breathe.
She tries to take in air. Her chest shakes, her hands won’t work—she’s tired, that’s all; she’s tired, and a little drunk,
and there’s jet lag, and it’s hot, and dark—
Plastic, and a snap of metal—finally—as she grasps the tiny Bic lighter. Relief, as she lights her cigarette.
With the first inhale of smoke, gray heat creating space in her lungs, she tips her head back. A soft drift—breathes in, breathes
out—and she tries to ground herself down, here: in this place, this night, and tries to ignore the unsteadiness in her body,
combination of lack of appetite, fragmented sleep, suppression, and the violence—the fucking bruise—of having hoped, of having been stupid enough to fucking hope—
“Excusez-moi, t’as un briquet?”
Lili glances over her shoulder.
“Sorry?” she says, looking at the girl who’s approached her, coming out of the bar. Dark hair, messy fringe, loose green blouse,
a tiny black skirt. A glass of wine, half-drunk, in her hand; a cigarette, unlit between her fingers.
“Un feu?” the girl says. She points at Lili’s cigarette, making a rolling motion with her thumb.
“Ah, yeah—oui,” Lili says, handing her the mini lighter.
“Merci,” the girl says. She lights her cigarette, flick of flame reflected in her wineglass.
Lili watches as she takes her first inhale—a blow of smoke, with a soft smile. She’s pretty, with bangs dusting her forehead,
a little too long. Bright blue eyes, clear skin—full, full lips. Slight shoulders, and the slope and shadow of her collarbones.
“C’est fou, non?” the girl remarks, throwing a mischievous glance at the bar. She hands the lighter back.
Lili shakes her head, apologetic. “Sorry—mon francais n’est pas—”
The girl laughs, but it’s good-natured. “It’s okay, I speak English. I’m Eva.”
Lili meets her gaze—warm, curious, with wine-stained lips, a clear gleam of interest in her attractive eyes—the way so many
people have looked at her so many times before, in other bars, in other cities, and Lili feels it: a familiar possibility.
This. She can do this; she knows this.
She smiles.
“I’m Lili,” she offers, in turn.
“Lili,” Eva repeats. She tilts her head, considering. “Where are you from, Lili?” She says her name like it’s a sweet secret
between them. She runs her hand through her hair; there are some thin rings, light slips of gold, on her fingers. Her hair
is mussed, sticks to the side of her slim neck, probably from dancing, but it looks lush, effortless. “Home is where?”
Home’s a bit of an illusion, no? Something we say to make ourselves feel better. The idea of something we’re moving towards,
something we can return to, when we’ve actually left years ago—
“New York,” she says. “I’m from New York.”
Eva’s gaze lights up. “Ah, New York! I love it there, such an exciting city.”
Lili nods, taking another drag of her cigarette. Alcohol spins in her veins; she knows how to do this, she knows.
“How about you?” she asks, leaning against the street balustrade. She can catch the girl’s—Eva’s—perfume, jasmine and saffron.
“Are you from Paris?”
She nods, taking a sip of her wine. “Yes, of course. How do you like it, the city?”
“It’s beautiful,” Lili says. She holds her gaze through the blur of drinks, the distant din of the bar, the conversation of
other smokers on the street curb. “It’s beautiful.”
“Are you here with anyone?” Eva asks. She rests against the balustrade beside Lili. Her eyes, very blue; her mouth, ripe. Absently, she brushes her thumb over her bottom lip, brushing away tobacco. Lili watches the motion. “In Paris?”
“With my friends,” she replies, inclining her head towards the bar.
The corner of Eva’s smile tugs up. “Just your friends?”
“Yes,” Lili says, focusing—focusing on the girl in front of her. That smile, beautiful eyes. “Just my friends. And you?”
Her cigarette burns low, hot against her fingers. Time, ticking—closer, closer—
Eva laughs, a light sound, and she lets out a light stream of smoke. They’re standing close enough now that she has to angle
her exhale, so it doesn’t blow into Lili’s face. “Everyone here is my friend,” she teases. “Probably, I am friends with the
friends of your friends, in there—and what does that make us, if not friends?”
I’m not your friend, Lili.
Lili lifts her chin, taking another too-deep inhale from her cigarette—sharp pierce of smoke in her chest, throat sore from
yelling in the bar, and that moment of near suffocation, too much heat, pressing in from the cigarette, the night around,
the smoke in her throat, a tangible moment of her body. Right before the exhale, and the rush.
“Do you want us to be friends?” she asks.
Eva makes a considering sound, her slight smile edging into something knowing. The silence stretches as they hold each other’s
stare for a beat; then two.
“How long are you in Paris for?” Eva asks, rather than answering. She takes a drink of her wine, as she keeps looking at Lili.
“Why, do you have recommendations for the American?” Lili says, lacing it with a tease, a flirt, a light joke—leaning, leaning, across the distance, between herself and the flirtation, with urgency, with urgency—
Eva smirks and taps out ash from her cigarette in the gutter. With the motion, her arm brushes against Lili. Her hair is gentle
and fragrant against Lili’s shoulder.
“If the American wants them,” she says. “What does the American want?”