“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 sûr,” 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. Thebrilliant 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 almostblue, 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,andI 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 galleriesnear 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,happyfor 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.
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 feelgood, 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.
