Page 12 of Notes About Vodka

Then one night, when the bar’s packed and we barely have time to exchange a glance, I decide to take a risk. The place is buzzing, but I slip her a note as she walks by, my fingers grazing the pocket of her apron. She’s on her way to the stage to drop off drinks near the piano, and I don’t even wait to see her reaction. I just write,

“Let’s build something together. Go out with me.”

As she sits on the piano bench, I watch her carefully unfold the napkin, the soft lighting catching the red in her curls as she reads it. For a second, I’m frozen, waiting for her response. Then, she looks my way, shaking her head, but she’s smiling. That smile. It’s playful, almost challenging, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. I can feel my heart racing just watching her.

I don’t get her reply until later, after the bar has emptied out and I’m closing up. I find her note tucked beneath the cash register,

“Let’s just build a friendship first.”

I stare at the words, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over me. She didn’t say no, not entirely. And that’s something. I realize she’s offering me something better, something that could last longer than a fling or some rushed romance. She’s telling me we need time, and I respect that.

So, that’s what we do. We build a friendship. We keep the notes coming, keep teasing, keep learning more about each other. And honestly? It feels right. Every time I get another one of her napkins, I know we’re laying down the foundation for something solid, something real. I know I could just get her cell number, but this feels special, something that is just ours.

One afternoon, after enjoying a beautiful day off, I drive around New York City in my MazdaSpeed6. The roar of the engine echoes through the narrow streets, and the breeze rushes through the open window. I take in the towering skyscrapers, the glint of the sun on the East River as I cross the bridge, and the distant hum of the city’s endless energy. The scent of hot asphalt and food carts fills the air as I wind through the vibrant neighborhoods, making each turn feel like an adventure. I love winding around town, taking the bridge over to Brooklyn or Staten Island.

Stopping byPianissimothat evening, I do some paperwork, order supplies, and help Mads with inventory.

As I tally up the bar’s earnings at the end of the night, I find another note from Laura.

"Nice whip."

I didn’t realize she was working tonight.

As I fold up the note and place it in my pocket, I can’t help but feel a bit confused.

Nice whip? What does that even mean?

I turn to Mads, who is busy corking wine bottles and counting the liquor, and ask him about the note. He looks up at me with a smirk on his face and says, “Val, dude, she’s complimenting your car.”

“My car?” I respond, puzzled.

“Yeah, man, whip means car. And nice means… well, nice,” he explains with a chuckle.

I feel my cheeks heat up as I realize that Laura has been paying attention not only to my words but also to the things around me. She noticed my beloved Zoomie—a detail that shows she cares enough to notice what matters to me. It's rare for someone to appreciate the things I’m proud of, and it makes me feel seen in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

I can't help but grin as I write back and leave the note where she will find it later.

"You know cars?"

The following day, I eagerly get to work to find her napkin response waiting for me, sticking out of the cash register.

"I grew up in a garage, surrounded by the smell of motor oil and the clanging of tools. My dad is a skilled mechanic back home. He taught me everything there is to know about cars. I guess you could say it's in my blood."

The image of a young girl with her red hair covered in grease and grime, intently watching her father work on engines, flashes through my mind.

I chuckle at her down-to-earth reply as I quickly scrawl my response on another napkin.

“That’s awesome! Sounds like you have some serious skills. What’s your favorite car to work on?”

Her response comes later that night, written with a bit of a mischievous flair.

“Honestly? I love working on old classics. There’s something special about bringing a vintage car back to life, but the Pontiac Firebird is my favorite.”

Feeling emboldened by this small gesture of interest from her, I decide to take a chance and invite her for a ride on my next note.

“Thanks for noticing my Speed6. Want to go for a ride sometime?”

I fold up the note quickly before any doubts can creep in and hand it to Laura as she passes by me behind the bar. Shetakes it with a smile and nods her head in response as she walks away, reading my question.

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