Adapted from Exhibit

I finished the iced tea.

"Do you want more?" she asked.

"No."

"Should we begin?"

"I, ah—"

"Will you stand up, Jin? Don't move again. Not until I say you can."

* * *

Lidija hit me with a belt, over my clothing, while I braced against the wall. She'd asked, the first time we'd spoken, about limits, pursuits. I'd replied as I could. She'd given me a bell, its handle tied to a strip of tulle ribbon. Lidija twined the fabric in my fingers. If I let it fall, she'd stop. I kept the bell in my hand; I clasped it.

Back home, I went to the full-length mirror in the hall. I had slight marks, a pale flush radiating in lace tights. Philip had gone out. No, I didn't mind marks, I'd told Lidija. I'd make sure Philip didn't spot me naked tonight. Mild welts, veiled in nylon. I traced lifted edges. Injured muscles, elated. It had fit so ill, this rigid, vexing form. In which I might, for once, belong.

"Can you tell me how you felt, after last time?" Lidija asked.

"No."

"But you're back."

"Yes."

Lidija put a kettle on to boil. "Jin, tell me what you're thinking."

I tried, but had soil filling in, peril. If I talked, I'd spit up the old, choking dirt. Not just with the risk of being thought ill, foul. If this dirt spilled, I'd open the hiding space. I'd let in a hope I might be found.

Lidija asked that I put both hands on the wall again. With a riding crop, she hit me until I replied.

* * *

Ice fell in a glass. "Hold it until the shaking ends," Lidija said. It would bring calm. She tipped puerh knots from a tin into cups; she lifted the piping kettle. I held the glass, ice rattling. Lidija, she'd helped me talk. I asked how she'd figured out what to do.

She laughed, giving me a cup. "Jin, I just listen."

* * *

I shot photos of Lidija tailoring ballet shoes. She ripped satin. "I'll be back to pointe in a bit," she said. Shell-pink ribbons fell through Lidija's fingers. I shot again. She taped up the injured ankle, the joint that kept her from dancing. Using a folding knife, Lidija etched beige treads. Lidija, in splits, jotted notes on the ballet she'd stage. She raked tight limbs with a jade stone. Lidija at the barre, leg tall. Strong thigh sliding down, then rising again. She dipped; she lunged. I shot while Lidija put on a Libich string quartet. She'd explore its swing. In the glass loft, she carved air, space, in fresh lines. It was plain Lidija had to dance. She'd heard sylphs call; body replying, what could Lidija do but go along?

* * *

For months, I'd failed to take a single photo I judged worth saving. If the pictures didn't have to be kept from Philip, I'd tell him, in detail, of the startling potential I felt in Lidija. Jolted, at first, with shock, he'd turn to reveling. He'd invite friends to our place. In high spirits, he'd set corks to popping.

Instead, I just said that, with Lidija, I was trying out photos. It might be nothing, I added. I hadn't said what else I was doing, but I would. Until then, I had to see Lidija again. She traced a fading bruise on my thigh. I shivered. Philip, the past night, had noted the red spots; I clipped a side table, I'd replied. "Hasn't this healed yet?" Lidija asked. She patted a salving gel on thigh skin. I was lying across Lidija's lap. I had thought I'd be fine, not having this.

* * *

Often, while I shot, she'd talk. Did I not like working in film? I had, at first. But I'd wait so long for the image. With film, I had less control. She laughed. "Oh, of course," Lidija said. She asked why I'd switch reflecting panels. I taught Lidija the logic behind trading out a lens. She adjusted dials, fiddling with the focal length, as I'd gloss what each change did. I spoke of photos' lexicon. I shot; I'd capture. Film, loading. Image, seized. I had a life of targets. Photos adopted the idiom of guns, its brutal jargon still polluting the form.

Excerpted from Exhibit by R O. Kwon. Copyright © 2024 by R O. Kwon. Excerpted by permission of Riverhead Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.