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Whoosh.
The giant gulp burns all the way down to my toes.
“Impressive.” Vladlen turns to Art. “Are you sure your date isn’t Russian?”
“She is, in spirit.” Art hands me the phone and grabs the bottle.
I prepare to take a picture.
Art takes a swig that seems larger than mine.
Macho display?
Must be. His face twists horribly, and I snap a few pictures of that with a grin.
Is the room spinning?
Hmm. What’s this warm feeling in my chest?
It’d better be the effects of vodka, and not something crazy, like the L-word. I think. Whatever it is, I feel great. I feel like I could fly at any moment.
I’m beginning to see why people drink vodka, despite the taste and the non-sweet calories and the threat of becoming an alcoholic.
“So, what’s next for you two?” Vladlen asks.
“We’re flying to Vegas,” Art says in a conspiratorial whisper that’s loud enough for all the nearby tables to hear.
Wow. He’s still clear-headed enough to work on our marriage backstory. Must be nice to have a bigger body mass. The best lie I could come up with at the moment is that I’m totally sober.
“Vegas. Wow.” Vladlen toasts us with his bottle and takes a big swig. “When?”
Damn, dude. Alcohol poisoning is a real threat.
“A couple more sessions in the parilka, and then we go.” Art stands up and glances in the direction of the steam rooms. “Speaking of… better get to it.”
“S lyohkim parom,” Vladlen says and shakily walks back to his table.
As Art heads to the steam rooms, his gait is a lot less graceful than usual. Looks like the alcohol is having an effect on him, after all.
I hurry after him. Once faced with the wet heat, I feel extra lightheaded, though it’s hard to be sure how much of it is from the steam, how much is from the vodka, and how much is from Art’s hotness. I brave it for as long as I can, and then Art brings me back to the table.
Then déjà vu happens. A guy walks over to our table, says his mom is Art’s fan, and asks for an autograph. The only difference is, instead of a bottle, he wants his “lucky ruble” signed, and instead of having us chug from the bottle, he brings over shot glasses.
When he leaves, I open my mouth to comment on how weird that was, but then a new dude comes over, and the whole thing repeats again—including shots.
My legs are feeling numb. And the tip of my tongue. And my thoughts are on a merry-go-round. On the bright side, pretending to be drunk should be very easy now.
As soon as the latest mama’s boy leaves, another stops by—and he’s even weirder in that he himself is the fan. Also, he offers to spank me in the parilka.
“No, thanks,” I say.
“Oh, come on,” he says. “I can do it very good.”
Am I slurring my words, or is he too drunk to understand that no spanking means no spanking?
“Seriously,” I say more firmly. “I’m good.”
“Don’t you respect me?” he presses.
