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Wow. I’ve never had vodka straight before. It burns like an STD.
What’s extra funny is the expression on Art’s face after he takes his shot. You’d think he’s just drunk molten metal.
For the next pic, Art drapes his arm over my shoulders—causing my heartbeat to skyrocket. Then we take a picture where we both put on the funny hats and make funny faces to match. Before the next picture, Art whispers into my ear, “From time to time, we might need to do some light PDA. Is that okay?”
Instead of answering, I impulsively peck Art on the lips.
Wowza. I feel like I’ve just mainlined rich, warm chocolate cake.
When I pull away, Art’s eyes have a strange gleam. Did I go too far in the PDA department?
“Did you get that?” I ask Marusja.
Please say no, so I have to do it again.
“Da,” Marusja grunts, no longer hiding her jealousy.
Walking over, she slams the phone into my palm, “to see if selfish come out good.”
I check.
Oh, yeah. The peck picture looks amazing—like our lips are meant to be connected like that.
Art nods approvingly when I show it to him. “Let me post this.”
Once his social media is updated, Art sets down his phone and tells me it’s time to visit the parilka.
We make our way back until we approach a wooden bench with a bunch of buckets filled with water on top of it. Inside the buckets are bushels of dried tree branches, soaking as if for a weird soup. Or maybe these are high-end brooms for witches? Witches who like their brooms wet? Is that what the hats are about?
Art pulls one of the broom-like things out with a satisfied smile. “This is called a venik.”
“Oh, that explains everything, thanks.”
“They’re birch tree twigs.”
“Ah. Why didn’t you say so before? Naturally, you bring a broom made from birch to a spa. That’s just logic.”
He winks. “This place is to a spa as vodka is to root beer.”
Speaking of vodka, I can feel a tiny buzz spreading through my veins.
“Fine,” I say with mock grumpiness. “Keep your venik thing mysterious, see if I care.”
With a knowing smile, Art walks up to a stack of wooden planks and grabs one. He then gestures at a thick wooden door. “When I open that, get inside quick. We don’t want to let out any fumes.”
“Fumes?”
He frowns. “It’s called par in Russian. It’s what we call the wet heat inside the banya.”
Wet heat? I nearly choke on my tongue. “I think the word you’re looking for is steam.”
“Potato, kartoshka.” He reaches for the door handle. “Just step inside, and you’ll learn what par really is.”
I obey my fiancé.
Wet heat, here I come.
