“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 brushesher 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—focusingon 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 ofyourfriends, 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?”
So close, and her hair smells like jasmine and cigarettes. Slight shoulders, soft skin; full mouth—ripemouth—clear eyes even when clouded a little with alcohol. A haze, to the edges of her: silk blouse, orange glow ofthe streetlights; glint of thin gold necklaces—glimpse of a small pendant, a signet medallion, nestled against her chest—against her collarbone, under her blouse, and a bit of heat breeze rustles the green silk so it winks like a jewel, and she’s watching Lili, words—question, invitation, potential—lingering in the air between them.
When Eva breathes out her drag, Lili can taste the smoke, soft against her own hair, her own mouth, watching Eva’s mouth, with lips a bit wet from wine, the flash of her white teeth; and her heart thuds, with the rustle of her own cigarette burning down, hot against her fingers. Eva shifts towards her, just slightly, just barely, and they’re close, very close, with the rise of their chests, and it’s like Lili can see her pulse, and taste her perfume, catch the taste of wine left on her lips, and her heart keeps racing faster, and faster—tick of a stopwatch, a push towards something, insistent and fervent: Someone, she needs to find someone, like this girl, here, fresh mouth, new body, the possibility of temporary refuge, physical warmth, and some pleasure that could feel so safe for just a moment. Eva glances down—a flicker of lashes, a moment lingering at Lili’s mouth—and howeasyit could be—this pretty girl, just her type, how fucking easy it could be. To move a bit closer, touch of skin, a gleam of eyes; another person, another body, again and again, until she’s bleached him from her; until his name—hisname—is gone—Aleksandr, she can hear her own gasp,Sasha, I—and Lili leans in, sheleans in—
But—the flinch of another’s skin.
Eva’s lips brush hers, and Lili stiffens.
She’s not him.
No one is him.
“Sorry,” Lili whispers, pulling away—finding her feet, stumbling. She lets her cigarette drop into the gutter, Eva’s confused face. “Sorry, I need to go—have a wonderful night, truly, I’m just—I can’t—”
Inside, past the push and pack of bodies, she finds her friends.
