Vanya

By Zennie Trieu, New York City, New York, U.S.

Tall, tanned, and handsome. Looks like Montgomery Clift, but without that heavy, pained neuroticism.

Walking into that bustling Hell’s Kitchen restaurant last September to start a new, part-time job to supplement my happy but hectic teaching-artist-and-working-actress lifestyle, I wasn’t necessarily expecting to be so dazzled by an unnecessarily perfect-looking gentleman. He wore a button-down patterned shirt with khaki pants that emphasized his long legs and impressive height. Taking a good look into his light eyes made me realize: This isn’t just some "nice guy." Here is a young man who understands complexity— but is also, quite simply, a kind-hearted soul.

Just a month later, I attended his birthday dinner in Chelsea: so glam, with fam vibes.

Weeks later, in early December, we had plans to visit a Brooklyn cat café. As the day went on, my already intense depression grew only more severe. I expressed concern that I wouldn’t be any fun tonight; maybe we should take a rain check? He told me it was, of course, ultimately up to me, but he personally was glad to spend time with me, regardless of mood.

We ended up cuddling with so many kittens that Monday afternoon, then sought shelter from the pouring rain in an East Village bar, munching on caviar and laughing about how, despite our mutually high yet realistic standards for our individual existences, life always seemed to exceed those expectations.

At some point during quarantine, I, too began to call him "Vanya"— the same affectionate nickname used by his Russian, Kazakhstani, and Ukrainian friends.

Last month, Vanya invited me to the beach. We talked through worries about the subway, public bathrooms, etc. Eventually, we decided to embrace the best of both worlds: yes, let’s go out and enjoy the hot and humid start to the season, but let’s also be vigilant about wearing our masks, bringing hella hand sanitizer, and keeping respectable distance from strangers on the train.

That Saturday was as safe and responsible as it was fun, fab, and relaxing. Trips to Rockaway with friends who’ve tested negative for the virus are now a weekly thing.

On the last Sunday of June, on an elevated station in Bushwick at night, I turned around and saw the Empire State Building lit up in rainbow regality.

A couple days later, Vanya told me how he'd just had a conversation with his mom, who’s still back home in Belarus— the Eastern European nation he escaped from to seek asylum here in the U.S. Many people there are ultra-religious and uberconservative; his mom had scornfully complained about the so-called “disgusting” and “offensive” LGBTQ+ festivities from the weekend prior. Vanya listened dutifully, but after they hung up, he told me how it hurt him deeply to hear those things while keeping his secret from his own mother— for God knows how long.

I thanked him for his trust and honesty, but also for spending Pride Sunday with me. He thanked me for listening, and for being his friend. I told him how proud I was to know him, how gorgeous he was inside and out, and how I recognized that, despite living active and awesome lives here in NYC, there's always an underlying upset, and that’s more than understandably valid. I appreciate how we can kick back and sip cocktails on rooftop lounges as much as we can discuss our respective family traumas and identity struggles as members of different marginalized groups.

Suddenly, this summer, we’re about to celebrate our one-year friendship anniversary. I’m grateful for a place in his life, and I have a feeling that this platonic love has a real fighting shot at lasting from here to eternity.