Page 13 of Notes About Vodka

The rest of our shift goes by in a blur as I wait anxiously for her reply. I can’t help but feel my nerves on edge, wondering if I had been too forward or if she might turn me down. The uncertainty gnaws at me, and I find myself glancing her way more often than I should. When I finally find the note she left for me near the drink pick-up station, my heart stutters as I read,

“I’d love that. But maybe another time…”

After a few days of anticipation, I finally receive her next note, waiting for me on the back of a piece of sheet music. It surprises me with its detailed description of my car.

The note reads:

“I have to say, I’m impressed. I don’t know how you can afford it, but I love your car. Your MazdaSpeed6 is so unique! With its turbocharged inline-six engine, it’s got that perfect blend of power and refinement. I read in Car and Driver that the all-wheel drive really adds to the driving experience, making it feel like it’s glued to the road. Plus, I really like how you lowered in a little and then blacked out all the windows.”

Reading her note, I’m touched by her extensive knowledge and the effort she putinto describing my car. I’m grinning from ear to ear as I think about how much Laura knows and appreciates the machine that I cherish.

Intrigued by her knowledge of cars, I respond with a question of my own,

"Do you have a 'whip'?"

Her next note comes swiftly, and it’s full of playful boasting. She writes,

“Oh, absolutely, without a doubt! My ride is way cooler than your Speed6. It's sporty, streamlined, and turns heads wherever I go."

My response is simple,

“And this ride is a ______?”

Laura’s note:

Her message leaves me both amused and curious. The way she described her car with such dramatic flair made me laugh.

“You won’t believe the kind of beast I drive!”

She wrote, adding just enough mystery to make me picture all sorts of possibilities. I can't help but wonder what kind of car she's talking about, especially with the way her voice practically bubbled over with excitement—like she could barely keep thesecret to herself, her words tumbling out faster than usual. The way she's teasing me—dropping hints like 'it’s not what you’d expect' or 'it has a personality all its own,' without giving too much away—makes it even more intriguing.

I really want to know what she's driving in this city.

Maybe something flashy, like a sports car, or maybe a quirky vintage ride—something that matches her vibe. I mean, if she knows this much about my car, what could hers be? I bet she drives a Mini Cooper—it just seems to fit her style, compact but full of personality, just like her.

Chapter Four

LAURA

“Vodka’s high alcohol content makes it easy to develop a dependency. This addiction can be challenging to overcome, leading to a cycle of abuse and deterioration of one’s physical and mental health.”

The spotlight beamed down, warm on my skin, as I played the piano and let the first note escape my lips. The soft hum of the piano filled the smoky bar, mingling with the faint clink of glasses and low murmur of voices.

Last night atPianissimo, I poured my heart into every song, singing and playing like the piano bar was a stage in some grand concert hall. Each lyric felt like a release, a way to let out everything I couldn’t say in words.

My fingers glided over the keys, their familiar texture grounding me in the moment, as though the piano was an extension of myself. The crowd wasn’t big, mostly regulars nursing their drinks, but a few turned their heads and gave me small, appreciative nods. Those little gestures fed something inside me, making me feel seen in a way I hadn’t expected. Itgave my voice more strength, and I leaned into the music, letting it carry me further.

But the room wasn’t entirely supportive. I could feel the eyes of the other wait staff on me, some glaring, their irritation palpable as they waited for their turn at the mic. The weight of their stares prickled my skin, making it harder to stay focused. It was like they were silently daring me to mess up, to prove that Tony had made the wrong choice by letting me perform. But instead of faltering, I let their judgment fuel me, my fingers pressing harder into the keys, my voice growing stronger.

If they wanted to see me fail, I was determined to show them the opposite.

Others looked outright resentful, probably angry Tony bypassed them to let me perform. Their silent judgment added a weight to the air, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the music, and the keys under my fingers.

The warmth of the spotlight on my skin mixed with the smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes, keeping me grounded in the moment. As my voice soared through the bar, I could see glimpses of connection in the faces of a few patrons—a woman at the bar tapping her foot, a man closing his eyes as if savoring the melody. Val leaning in the door frame from the back, watching me with his dark eyes.

Despite the tension, I sang for myself as much as for the crowd. Each note felt like a small rebellion against the doubts and struggles that tried to pull me down. As I leaned into the music, the soft clinking of glasses and faint murmur of voices blended into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat.

I thought about how far I’ve come—from the lonely nights in Alabama when dreams like this felt impossibly out of reach, to this small but significant moment of sharing my voice and my story. And yet, the thought lingered: how far I still have to go.The dreams I’m chasing still feel enormous, like the stars themselves, but for now, this bar and this piano are enough.

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