Exit Event #2
But the blur of the tablecloth under her gaze resolves. She will fight for this. “I made a mistake,” she says. It’s stupid, and simple, but true. “I fucked up, I—I know, and I knew it then, too, I’m not trying to wash my hands of that. But I—it wasn’t because of you, when I left that night—”
A flinch snaps across his face. A moment too late, Lili realizes what her words sounded like, as he stands, withdrawing a
wallet from his breast pocket. “Wait, Aleksandr, please, that’s not what I—”
“Are you done?”
Lili winces. “I’m trying here,” she whispers, under the restaurant noise. “Please . . . I know you owe me nothing, I know
that, but please—I’m making a mess of this, but let me explain, and then I’ll—I’ll go, and you won’t . . . you won’t have
to see me again, I promise.”
Aleksandr throws cash on the white tablecloth.
“Fine.” The sense of gritted teeth. “You want to do this? Let’s go.”
The relief that washes through her is not entirely consoling.
“What?” she whispers.
“You heard me,” he says, already walking away from the table.
Lili stands, a split second later—disbelief, incredulous—and follows him.
His car is around the corner on Crosby.
“The office, sir?” Richard asks from the driver’s seat, as they get in.
The harsh crack of the door, as Aleksandr slams it shut behind him.
“No, the apartment.”
Richard nods, glancing in the rearview mirror to check traffic—then smiles with surprise, seeing Lili. “Miss Marwan! It’s
good to see you—”
“Drive.”
Lili bites her tongue, holding back a response.
Cobblestones roll under the tires, as the car pulls away from the curb.
Beside her, Aleksandr is silent, staring out the window as if she’s not in the car with him. Lightness fades in her chest.
It’s a short drive, five minutes. Unease grows in her stomach.
She gets a similar reaction from Louis when he sees them enter the building foyer: surprised warm welcome, cheerful attempt
at a greeting as he rushes to hold the front door open, “—away on vacation? We haven’t seen you—” but Aleksandr brushes past,
ignoring him.
He doesn’t look back to see if Lili follows.
It’s a cold light, in the loft. The kitchen counters are clean, a discarded copy of the FT, an iPad. Nothing in the fruit bowl. On the dining room table, there are two glasses. Remnants of red wine, smudges of fingerprints.
Signs of someone else here, last night. The nausea in Lili’s stomach seizes tighter. Sanae, Sanae—these signs of how she might be fitting into his home, his life.
Footsteps, and she glances over her shoulder. Aleksandr’s gone: down the hall, towards his bedroom.
She hesitates, and then follows.
He’s shrugging his suit jacket off as she walks in. He throws it on the bed, sheets made. Lili tries not to see whether another
woman’s details—hair ties, favorite lip balm, half-read books—are on the nightstand, or if extra clothing hangs in his closet—
“Take off your clothes.”
He’s looking straight at her. Standing by the window, his gaze is unkind.
Lili hesitates.
She feels like there’s something about to be ruined here.
But she lets her tote slip off her shoulder. It hits the ground with a soft thud. Her skirt comes undone with a whisper of
its zipper, the drift of silk falling to her feet.
Lili holds his gaze. And there’s—nothing for her, there.
Nothing that betrays any past familiarity or previous affection. Nothing but hardness—tight hate, growing anger—as if with
each piece of clothing she sheds, he wants to hurt her more.
She glances at the floor, swallowing back rising panic.
Breathe, Lili, she thinks, as she kicks off her shoes. A refrain from another continent; could it get her through this, too? This pain of
him touching her, without wanting her?
With unsteady hands, she pulls her sweater and shirt over her head; in that moment of blindness, he grabs her arm, pulling
her towards him.
Surprised, she almost trips over her discarded shoes, falling against him, “—sorry—” as he throws her sweater aside, disorienting her, before the heat—sudden, unexpected; that first real touch of skin—of
his hand down the front of her underwear.
“Not even wet yet,” he mutters, hard teeth. “When will you stop wasting my time?”
His fingers move against her, pushing her onto her toes to accommodate his reach. It feels like a release of the tightest
knot, even too rough. Lili inhales, grip tightening in his shirt. By instinct, her mouth tries to find his.
Sudden pain sears across her scalp; Aleksandr tugs her face away from his, grasp hard in her hair, to keep her from kissing
him, and the burst that wants to break in her throat, like a sob—as she watches, blinking away tears, the work of his jaw,
dark spite in his eyes—
He spits on the ground, like it disgusts him to kiss her. Her fingers curl in his shirt.
“Fine,” he grits out. “You wanted to apologize? Get on your knees and beg?”
She hesitates. But if this is all he’d allow her—if this is what he wants—if this is all he needs, from her—
Lili nods, restricted movement under his grip in her hair.
Immediately, the sense of a wrong answer.
Hardness flashes in his eyes, and Aleksandr shoves her to her knees, the tangle of his hand in her hair forcing her down.
“Tell me,” he demands, pulling her head back. The harsh motion distends her throat, and Lili bites back a thin hiss; but God,
the familiar wash of pain. “When am I going to be free from you? Of this, of remembering you?” It’s difficult to breathe around
this angle—she tries, struggling, and he only grabs her hair harder. “Use your words,” he spits out. “You were always so good
with your words, weren’t you? How do I get rid of you?”
Even though she’s on her knees, it’s like he’s begging her. All that cold indifference from the restaurant has burnt away,
leaving such hate in his gaze, like it has fermented for weeks, like it’s eating him alive.
There isn’t going to be forgiveness here.
Just hate and hurt, to help him bleed dry, to let him be through with her.
Lili grasps his hand, in her hair. He lets her, grip loosening with a moment’s uncertainty, before she draws it to her throat.
It’s not hurt in his eyes, then. It’s heartbreak.
Snapping, he drags her from her knees and throws her onto the bed. Disoriented, air rushes into her lungs—but then his body
is over hers, holding her down, as his mouth finds her skin.
It’s sheer, incredible insanity—the fact that he’s touching her again, he’s touching her again—hard press of his lips against her throat, scrape of his teeth, the arch of her neck; the absolute heat, the heartbreak soar
of how her body lurches towards him—she cannot touch enough of him, he cannot seem to kiss enough of her, dragging her bra
straps down. She’s trying to get his shirt undone—his mouth finds her collarbone, her breasts—he groans, this tight tension
in his jaw, anger like the scent of her spites him.
“Are you fucking done with me yet?” His words tear into her skin. Lili tries to breathe into it—this roughness that used to
be soothing. “Are you?”
I can give him this, she tells herself, shaking, trying to stay above water. His clothes—fine wool of his trousers, starched cotton of his shirt—grate
harsh against her near-naked body, and she does not want him to stop hurting her—it’s selfish, but she holds onto the heaviness
of his hate, this physical pain, as a thing she could interpret as want, for just this little longer.
But it’s not want, how he touches her now: it’s an exorcism, like he’s trying to wash himself clean of her.
Lili knows how to love pain when she knows it won’t harm her beyond her skin, won’t dredge too deep, won’t leave lasting marks,
won’t meet the real hurt in her.
But this, this is creating a new bruise, a new injury. This is not harmless; this is how they touch that pain, and cannot endure it. This
is how they become changed people, strangers to one another. How they forget the scent of each other’s skin, thud of their
hearts.
I’d give you anything of my body, she thinks. I’d give you more than that, too, but I don’t think you want it, any longer.
An angry, frustrated sound rises in his chest. “Answer me,” he demands. “What else do you want from me? When are you going
to fucking be done with me? Is this finally it?”
Confused blur, it’s not about what she wants from him, it’s about what he wants from her. “No, I—more,” she gasps out, disoriented
with the heat of him, the run of her breath. “I can take more—”
Tension snaps in his shoulders; again, the wrong answer.
He grabs her throat, fingers still tangled with her hair, and forces her head against the bed.
A choked whimper—hers, soft between them—as his hand slides into her underwear again, finding her wet.
“Is this all there is to you?” he asks, hoarse.
“Just some body? Only good for fucking? Is that all you’re ever going to be good for? ”
Her breath starts to fail. There’s the immediate threat of transcendence to it, bitter, broken, blessedly familiar. A relief
from everything she is, and has done, and will continue to be—he could push her into nothing, and she might be able to finally—finally—breathe in that.
But that—a sudden seize of concern, a panic of thought: Is that selfish—to need this, to want this, for the act itself, to
find release, and salve in it, rather than endure it for him, endure it without her—
“Answer me,” he grits out again, pushing harder. Her vision blurs; a question, he’d asked her a question. “Is this all you
are?”
Blinking back tears, she tries to shake her head—aching throat, barely able to move under his grip—body struggling, shaking—and
still, she is only trying to hold him closer.
“Aleksa—” His name expires in her throat, a whisper.
“Fight back, Lili,” he rasps, voice cracking with rising urgency. “Fucking fight back—”
As her consciousness begins to fade, her hand falls from his shoulder, settling against his forearm. With the last bits of
strength in her, she does not grasp his wrist tighter, does not make him choke her more.
Instead, her fingers thread between his, gentle.
“Sasha—”