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 andobviouslogic—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 tofucking 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,fulllips. 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 français 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.
