After the Tears

I thought I knew what comes after the tears, at least when vodka is involved. One little shot at a time, you move between the lover and the fighter, between fear and abandon. Steaming potatoes, salty herring, a bottle of vodka — and suddenly you are someone else.

I won’t pretend innocence. In my respectable years I can hold a drink. And at After the Tears, hold it I did: a shot of blackcurrant vodka, dumplings on the side. Forgive me, Russian friends — Polish sophistication won me over.

I’ll be back. To test what really waits after the tears.