Page 1 of Notes About Vodka

The 1st Movement

EXPOSITION

Learning the characters. What they want. Desire.Fear.

Prologue

“The great thing about vodka is it can be paired with just about anything.”

Purity. Cleansing. Deceptive.

Vodka, cold, it may pair well with anything and everything, but it still burns…

The glass feels cool in my hand, its chill contrasts with the warmth in the dimly lit room. The scent of aged wood and lemon polish lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of spilled alcohol. The low murmur of conversations and the soft rustle of movement add a sense of intimacy to the space. The quiet memory of earlier patrons fills the air, while the faint clink of glasses and quiet jazz music blend in the background. It's so reminiscent of years ago, of a past...I reallyneed to forget.

I bring the vodka to my lips, hesitating for a beat before tipping it back. The icy liquid slides over my tongue before the burn hits—sharp and intense, like fire down my throat. I close my eyes, savoring the fleeting pain that quickly morphs into a heat blooming in my chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

I exhale slowly, feeling the aftermath—a lingering tingle tickets my throat, it’s a bold reminder of the alcohol's passage as it burnt is way into my stomach. It’s a sensation that demands attention, much like him. The burn is both a challenge and a promise, like the heat I always feel when he looks at me.

As the warmth spreads through my body, a small smile tugs at my lips. The burn of vodka is intoxicating, raw, and unrefined—just like the passion that used to simmer between us.

Yet, this heat has found embers to burn elsewhere these days...

I set the glass back onto the polished bar, the clink reverberating in the quiet space between us. I signal the bartender for another shot, my fingers trembling ever so slightly. The room feels too still, too expectant, as if holding its breath in anticipation of what’s to come.

The bartender nods without a word, his practiced hands deftly arranging glasses and wiping down the bar with swift, precise motions, but there's a tension in his shoulders. It's the kind of stress that speaks of unspoken worries, a heaviness that I know too well—he's bracing himself for the confrontation we’ve both been dreading. He doesn’t meet my eyes, and I wonder if he’s avoiding the conversation we both know is coming—the one weighted with unresolved truths and simmering regrets, threatening to spill over if either of us speaks first. His presence feels familiar yet distant—a stranger in a shared life.

As he sets the fresh shot of vodka in front of me, I take adeep breath, steeling myself. The burn of the previous drink no longer lingers in my chest, a reminder of the fire I once felt, now extinguished.

I look at him, really look at him, and my heart aches with the realization of how far apart we’ve drifted. Once, his eyes held a promise, a future I was eager to embrace. Now, they reflect a freedom that doesn’t include me.

“Another one?” he asks, his voice neutral, as if talking to just another patron.

“Yes,” I reply, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “And keep them coming.”

He raises an eyebrow, a flicker of something crossing his face—concern? Annoyance? It’s hard to tell anymore. He’s become so good at hiding his true feelings, just as I’ve become adept at pretending everything is fine.

I watch him move away, my mind racing. I’ve rehearsed this moment a thousand times—each time picturing myself saying the words differently, sometimes in anger, sometimes in sadness, but always with a sense of finality. I imagined the questions he might ask, the disbelief in his eyes, and the way I would stand my ground. My heart pounds in my chest, and the words I planned feel heavy in my throat. Can I really do this?But I know there’s no turning back now.

He returns, setting the next shot in front of me. Our fingers brush briefly, and I pull back as if burned. It’s now or never.

“So,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. He looks at me, finally meeting my eyes. There’s a flicker of curiosity, maybe even concern. I swallow hard, the words threatening to choke me. “We need to talk.”

His brow furrows, and he leans in slightly, lowering his voice to a more intimate tone. “What’s wrong?”

I take a deep breath, feeling the tears prick at the corners ofmy eyes. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say, my voice trembling. “I can’t keep pretending everything is okay. I want a divorce.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and irreversible. His expression shifts—shock, confusion, anger, all flashing across his face in rapid succession. For a moment, he’s speechless, and in that silence, I feel the weight of years crashing over me.

“Wife...” he finally says, his voice strained, “what are you talking about?”

I shake my head, tears spilling over now. “I feel like I’ve lost you. We’re not partners anymore. You have your freedom, your new life. And I’m just here, a shadow in your world.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “It’s not just about you. It’s about me, too. I need to feel alive again, to find myself. And I can’t do that here, with you.”

The silence stretches on, the weight of my words sinking in. I pick up the shot glass, downing the vodka in one gulp. The burn is fierce, but this time it’s a welcome distraction from the pain in my heart.

He looks at me, his eyes reflecting a mix of hurt and understanding. “Lubimaya... I didn’t know you felt this way.”

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