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

She asked if it could be right, to disdain radish soup. Staple of hansik, noble plant. In harsh times, it kept people from starving. Bad, prodigal girl. It was Lidija's fault, though. She hadn't kept me in line.

"I have to go," I said.

But with Lidija's breath singing along hot skin, I forgot the usual guilt. I'd skip the pub night. With a slight push, a laugh, she sighed. "Go, all right." Still, Lidija's point was made. Pitted against a clock, a pledge, she'd triumph.

* * *

I didn't ask what I might be doing. Not, that is, past the circling frame of each image. I'd fill, in private, I thought, an abiding lack. I craved a pledge others had from birth. Philip, you had it, as well. Idle couples stroll past. People kiss in line at the café. Pop ballads sing of a boy who longs like you. In ads, tabloids, the Bible, top-forties songs, people like you exist. It's a surfeit of public, trivial signs you'll stand tall, taking pride in who you can't help being. I'd tried ruling it enough, the pining. It's also a kind of living, I thought, to desire. No less full, intact, for being stifled. But Philip, I did want more.

* * *

Long hair wild until Lidija held it in a fist, a leash she pulled high. I was tied in Lidija's flax rope. Paradigm of the girl in distress, but I'd adapt the role. Instead, daedal, I played the escape artist: I leapt to hope. Ignited nerves fired pleasure along each line of rope; I was tied in light. I'd turn the abject into gold.

* * *

If I had a sip of tea, I'd fiddle with the cup's handle. Its glass like the pure, calm line of Lidija's throat. I'd pick up a marble evoking the ball of Lidija's wrist. It hurt to sit; I thought, Lidija. I'd floss, and I'd recall Lidija's hands adjusting a gag. Legs buckling, I'd grip the basin. It furled through me, this longing. Each time it opened, large wings flailed to rip me apart.

I still met Lidija once, perhaps twice, a week. If not working, I'd tend to be with Philip. He rang the bell, holding a box of Fuji apples; I lunged, to let him in. I read to Philip, giving him pliers as he fixed a broken sink. He jarred plums Sahaj foraged. Oil-drum asados on Elise's and Hiju's rooftop. Sunday idylls with 1960s heist films, Philip's head lazing in my lap as I fed him figs. I'd plotted a life with Philip; he had my time, but Lidija, she lived spotlit.

* * *

I'd brought Lidija a pint of Beldi olives, as a gift. She opened it; an oil drop fell. Lidija asked that I wipe the spill.

"I'll get a napkin," I said, puzzled, but willing.

"No, Jin," she said. "Lick up the mess."

She flipped the box. Oil-bathed olives rolled pell-mell. I got down; I hadn't licked a spill before. Not even with Lidija, but I jerked forward. She'd hit me with a riding crop. I put a hand on olive skin. It split open, the oil sliding.

"Such a mess," Lidija said. "Oh, well. Eat it all, Jin. I want shining tiles."

I moved fast, crop flashing if I let the pace slip. I lapped flecked trails of oil; I ate the olives, rich salt filling my mouth. Lidija had out a tall bag of black currants. She spilled the fruit, as well. I picked those up. I had one job, pleasing Lidija.

"I wish you'd see this. Up," Lidija said.

She led me to the ballet mirrors, a wall of rail-sliced glass. Ordered to spin, I did.

"It's as if you've come in from the wild," she said.

I was bright with oil, juice-stippled. Legs shaking, I did look wild. Not fit, as I'd fretted, for public living. But I'd leapt past shame to a fresh, unruled place. I didn't care, at last, if I'd belong. Instead, I got to be this.

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.