Seeing Through Red
by Laura Dvorak
A week after I left the heat soared. The roads of Moscow were melting and men were dying, although indirectly and largely in part because they tried swimming the Baltic, bellies filled with vodka. Red vodka was my favorite, the cherry sweetness smooth and cool. The steaming streets of Moscow, becoming stickier in the third week of vindictive temperatures, were sprayed by convoys of water trucks, perhaps the very road-cleaning trucks the taxi crept behind, tires sluicing wet tar early Saturday morning two days before solstice. Maraschino light spilled across blocky buildings along the freeway. As the airport grew taller, I didn’t want to leave.