Page 35 of Notes About Vodka

I smile, the memories of my hometown flooding back in a rush. “I know I'm joking when I say it Hurts-a-boro to live there, but I loved it. Hurtsboro is a tiny place, probably not much more than a dot on a map to most people. But it’s home, you know? It’s the kind of town where everyone knows everyone, and nothing much changes. The streets are lined with old, creaky houses, and there’s this one main road that runs through the center, where you’ll find a few shops, a diner, and a post office. Most of it falling apart and crumbling. Every evening, nomatter the day, at exactly 5 p.m., the United Methodist Church plays a variety of piano and organ music for the hour. I used to love walking down those olds roads after school, listening to the songs, visiting the “Zoo” where Old Man Casterdale raised peacocks, turkeys, and donkeys, or just waving to Mrs. Jenkins as she sat on her porch, always knitting something or other.”

Val chuckles softly, the sound warm and inviting. “Sounds peaceful.”

“It was,” I say, nodding. “But it could also feel a bit stifling, like the whole world was passing by while you were stuck in this little bubble. Russell County was pretty much the same—quiet, rural, with lots of farmland and forests. We had a decent school, though, and I made some good friends there, like Skipper and his older sister Aster. We used to go swimming in the creek during the summer, catching crawdads and skipping rocks. Simple things, but they meant a lot to us.”

Val listens intently, his gaze never leaving my face. “I can picture it,” he says softly. “A place where life moves slowly, where you can breathe.”

“Exactly,” I reply, smiling. “But it also meant that getting out was hard. People there tend to stay their whole lives, never venturing too far from where they were born. My dad is still there, in the same house I grew up in. Sometimes I miss it—the familiarity, the sense of belonging. But other times, I’m glad I got out, that I’ve had the chance to see more of the world.”

“And your mom?”

“Ummm…she’s another story for later. But the long and the short of the matter, she left Daddy when I was little, remarried, and actually lives just an hour near here in New Haven.”

Val nods, as if he understands completely. “I love the way you speak, and I think I know what you mean. Sochi is my home, but it’s different from what you’ve described. It’s a city, with its own pace, but also with a deep connection to nature.We have the Black Sea on one side and the Caucasus Mountains on the other. Summers are warm, and the sea is always there, calling to you. Winters, though... Winters are something else entirely.”

“Tell me,” I say, leaning in a little closer, eager to hear more.

He smiles, his expression softening as he dives into his memories. “Winters in Sochi are cold, but there’s this beauty in it. The snow blankets everything—the streets, the trees, the rooftops. The mountains, well…they look like they’ve been dusted with sugar, so white and pristine. But it’s not just the cold, it’s the way the city adapts to it. The people bundle up, and life doesn’t stop. There’s a coziness to it, a kind of camaraderie that comes with enduring the winter together.”

I imagine the scene as he describes it, the stark contrast between the warm, humid summers of Alabama and the crisp, snowy winters of Sochi. “It sounds magical,” I say softly.

“It can be,” Val agrees. “But it’s also a place of history and resilience. Sochi has been a battleground, a resort town, and in a few years, a host to the Olympics. It’s seen so much change, yet it remains this vibrant, living place. The sea is always there, reminding you of the vastness of the world, and the mountains stand tall, like guardians.”

“I’d love to see it someday,” I say, almost dreamily. “It sounds so different from anything I’ve ever known.”

Val’s smile widens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hope, maybe? “Maybe you will,” he says. “And I’d love to show you around. It’s a place worth seeing.”

For a moment, we’re both quiet, lost in the idea of these two worlds colliding—my small, Southern town and his bustling, snow-kissed city. It’s strange to think how different our lives have been, yet here we are, sharing these pieces of ourselves with each other as our hands continue to tangle under the bar top.

As the night wears on, the conversation flows easily between us, touching on our families, our childhoods, the dreams we once had. There’s a vulnerability in Val’s voice as he talks about the uncertainty of his situation, the way he’s had to navigate life in a country where he no longer has a legal status.

He tells me about the nights spent working extra shifts to make rent, the constant anxiety of one mistake exposing him, and the loneliness of not being able to return home. "There was this time," he says with a bittersweet smile, "when I accidentally gave the wrong change to a customer. For hours, I was terrified they’d report me for something stupid like theft, even though I fixed it right away. That fear… it never really leaves you."

I knew it was rough, but learning more of the details and how if he goes home to Russia he may not be able to come back. So he’s staying to finish his degree and try to make a career here.

I listen, my heart aching for him. “That must be so hard, Val. Not knowing what’s going to happen next.”

“It is,” he admits, his voice low, “but I’ve been lucky. I’ve found work, met good people. It’s not the life I imagined, but it’s something. And then I met you...”

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and I can feel my cheeks warm under his gaze. It’s not just what he said, but how he said it—with a sincerity that feels rare, like he’s letting me see a part of him that most people don’t get to see. For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel understood, like someone is truly looking past the surface and seeing the person I’m trying to become.

“I’m glad we met, too,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

There’s a moment of silence, a shared understanding that there’s something more between us, something neither of uscan't quite put into words yet. But it’s there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.

As we finally get up to leave, Val insists on driving me back to my apartment and that he will help me pick up my scooter in the morning. The night air is cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the bar, and we stroll slowly, our shoulders brushing as we walk side by side to his car.

Despite the heaviness of the evening, there’s something comforting about this exchange of stories, like we’re building a bridge between our two worlds. By the time Val drives me back to my apartment, there’s a sense of connection that feels deeper than before.

When we reach my door, I expect the night to end there, but Val surprises me. He steps closer, his dark eyes searching mine, and before I can fully process what’s happening, he leans in and brushes the lightest peck on my lips.

It’s so quick and gentle that it leaves me blinking, stunned.

We stare at each other for a heartbeat, the air between us charged with an intensity that feels almost tangible. My pulse races, and the world around us seems to blur, leaving only the weight of this moment. His expression softens, his gaze holding a mix of curiosity and longing, and it’s in that shared look that I realize just how much I’ve been waiting for this connection, for someone who makes me feel like this.

My chest tightens, and without thinking, I grab him by the collar, pulling him down to me.

This time, my lips touch his first and the kiss is deeper, bolder—a rush of emotion I can’t hold back. My hands move to his face, and he responds instantly, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.

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