Page 11 of Notes About Vodka

For the rest of the night, I wait, thinking maybe she’ll shoot me a glance or slip a note back, but it’s just one drink order after another. No sign of anything. By closing, I’m frustrated. What did I expect? That she’d stop everything and start writing back to me in the middle of a rush?

The next day, as I go to open the teller, I find a napkin left at the bar for me. Soft, cursivehandwriting says,

"Vodka, hmmm… My notes?

Maybe I should begin with no great story ever started with a salad."

I laugh. Laura’s funny.

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth. She got it. She’s in on the game. Maybe we can’t talk, but this—this works. It’s our own little thing now, hidden in the middle of the madness.

After Laura’s witty vodka comment, I had to keep the notes going.

Scribbling on napkins and old receipts feels like second nature. It’s crazy how much you can learn about someone without ever saying a word to their face—like how she prefers almost all music, or that she once drove directly to West Virginia on a whim just to see the leaves change colors.

“Now that I know your name and that you have a sense of humor, where do you get your accent from?”

I write next, curious. The next shift, she leaves me a napkin reply:

“I hauled it all the way from Alabama in the trunk of my car.”

I lose it, laughing behind the bar like an idiot. So, Laura’sfrom the South. I guess that explains the drawl I couldn’t quite place.

I've worked hard to minimize my own accent, hopefully I sound less Russian and more like a New Yorker.

Over the next few weeks, these napkin notes become our thing. The bar is always too loud, too busy for real conversations, but this? This is perfect. It’s like having a secret in plain sight. The more we exchange, the more I get to know her beyond the quick glances and stolen moments during shifts. And damn, I’m intrigued.

She tells me about her small town, Hurtsboro, which I’ve never heard of, so I ask her why she left. Her response?

“Because it Hurts-a-boro to leave there.”

I don’t get the joke at first, but when I do, I laugh so hard I spill a glass of water.

In return, I tell her about Sochi—how I had a condo in the city and a dacha in the mountains of Lazarevskiya with my parents. I even explain that Russia has States, or Oblasts, which surprises her. I can almost imagine the way she’d tilt her head, curious, trying to picture what that means.

The conversations keep coming, in bits and pieces, scattered over napkins, receipts, whatever we can find. One night, I write her a note about wine, telling her I prefer red over white, asking what she thinks. The next shift, her reply’s scribbled on the back of a receipt:

“Life’s too short to drink bad wine. And if a glass makes you feel good, imagine what a wholebottle will do.”

Her humor’s sharp, and it always gets me. But beyond the jokes, there’s something else—something deeper. These notes have gone from small talk to real conversations about everything: food, movies, books. I can feel us opening up in this weird, roundabout way.

I wonder if she realizes I’m catching feelings. Because every new note I get, every little piece of her personality I uncover, pulls me in further.

We don’t just talk about everyday things anymore; it’s turned into something more. Each napkin, each note, becomes this little treasure that tells me something new about Laura, something that keeps me hooked. We share our favorite restaurants, hidden spots around the city, places we both love. It’s like exploring each other’s worlds, piece by piece, through scribbled words on scraps of paper. There’s something so personal about it, like these notes are a window into who she really is, beneath all the hustle and noise of the bar.

And it’s not just about swapping lists of favorite movies or the best places to grab a drink. It’s become this ongoing, playful thing—like we’re in our own private game that no one else at the bar even knows about. Hidden in plain sight, surrounded by customers and coworkers, but it’s just me and Laura passing notes like high school kids with a secret.

The notes get flirty, too. One day she wrote,

“Champagne is for celebrations, but I think you might be worth a toast!”

and that line lingers with me long after the bar closes. I find myself thinking about what she’ll write next, how she’ll twist her words into something that’ll make me laugh or leaveme wondering. Her wit is sharp, but there’s always a warmth to it, like she knows just how to tease without going too far. The banter? It’s addictive. I start looking forward to her notes more than anything else at work.

It’s a slow burn, this connection. Every time we pass a napkin, it feels like we’re inching closer to something unspoken, something real—a true bond, maybe even love, that goes beyond the casual flirtation.

I imagine us sharing more than just notes, but real moments together, building a life that starts with these small, meaningful exchanges. I’ve never felt this kind of pull before, not just with her looks or the way she carries herself, but with the words she leaves behind.

I know we’re building something, one napkin at a time.

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