Excerpt from Exhibit by R O. Kwon, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Lidija, too, lived for an art defined by flag-plying men. Ballet hailed, in part, from a French king. Royal, opulent agitprop. She talked about its Medici origins. Its past life as a kind of upscale brothel. Rich patrons; ill-paid girls. Called, in Paris, petits rats, the girls all but peddled to men in silk top hats. Or, well. Not quite past, the art form often, still, corrupt. But Lidija loved it, as I did image.

She and I, after I'd shot, might take up what I still called, even in my head, playing. If Philip had gone out, I'd then mix aperitifs, or she'd put on a pot of puerh tea. In spite of the first couple nights, Lidija didn't tend to indulge in alcohol. One glass, then she'd stop. It hurt the dancing, she said. Ordering in, we spoke, while red-gold light swept the loft.

* * *

During the fifth time, Lidija's ball gag was too big. It slid out; foiled, she added tape. She tied on a cloth, tripling the wrap. "It fits," Lidija said. I could yell, if I liked, though it might not be my call.

I then had drinks with a friend, Sahaj. It was before a photo opening, the bar loud. "Let's find a quiet place," he said. "Jin, the hell did you do last night?"

"Karaoke," I whispered.

"Did you shout all the songs?"

I had, for the most part, yes.

* * *

I gasped, fighting for a breath, until Lidija's belt went still. I'd told Lidija I had, at times, fits of panic. "Inhale," she said. "Hauling it in to the end. Jin, hold it. Exhale, as far as it'll go. Inhale. You'll be all right. Out, until it's all gone. Inhaling."

I followed Lidija's direction; the gasps ebbed. "I think I'm all right."

She laughed. "Like I said, Jin."

* * *

Lidija and I had rules in place. Offering the bell, she'd signal a role change. I did as she said as long as I had the bell in hand. If I broke a rule, or didn't listen to Lidija's bidding, I'd fail. But I hadn't learned yet where failing led. I didn't intend to let Lidija down. If I let the bell fall, or Lidija fetched it, we'd drop back to being friends again. In and out, we'd slip, form-shifting, equals, then lopsided.

* * *

I'd walk, often, shaded by a hat. I didn't have, in the past, a habit of casual lusting. It wasn't just that I'd loved Philip since college; before him, I still hadn't felt the kind of quick urge friends did, desiring people walking past. Elise, for one, a close friend, kept a rolling catalog of all the people she might find alluring. She'd predict, in a flash, who'd be single. Life with a husband made Elise's skills less vital; it hadn't dulled this gift.

But as I'd stride, the prolific world rushed in. I had it, too, at last, this punch of longing. Pines surged up from tiles, bark spiraling. I'd walk, alive to the cyclist who held still, staring. Light-rail trains hurtled past, asphalt shaking as I did. I noticed the ink-florid person who, hipshot, sloped against a shop wall. Lilies arched fresh sepals, pistils fertile with gold dust. Oh, I thought, oh, so this is living. Nights, while Philip read, I unlatched shut glass. I flung the sash open. Scents rippled through, estival wind singing of lust.

* * *

I'd avoid pain, in general. Once, I sliced a palm on a catalog's edge. It bled for a while, hurting. I told Philip I might have to go to the hospital. I talked about its being, perhaps, infected. No one alive had coped with such a pitiful cut. I caviled to Philip, Lidija, to friends. It closed; I forgot about it.

* * *

Ballet shaped Lidija's most trifling habits. Hips open, Lidija didn't stand in parallel. If a plastic bag flitted to the ground, she'd get it while halving, agile, folding at the waist. Or she'd balance on a leg, tilting forward, its pair lifting in a calm, lithe penché. Raising a leg in a split, she glided the limb straight up. Lidija lived as if part of an exalted line of being.

* * *

Close calls did happen. I was naked, after a bath, as the door hinged open. I shut it, swift, with a bruised leg.

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.