Moe Sorrentino, 62, retired lineworker for the Auglaize County electric co-op, wiped sweat off his brow with the back of a frayed flannel sleeve and stacked another set of frosted mugs under the beer tent counter. The July air hung thick enough to drink, sharp with the smell of catfish grease, cut alfalfa from the adjacent fairgrounds, and the yeasty tang of draft lager. He’d volunteered for the annual county fish fry every year since his wife, Carol, passed three years prior; it kept him out of his too-quiet ranch house, gave him an excuse to bullshit with old friends instead of tinkering with broken generators in his garage till 2 a.m.
He looked up when a shadow fell over the counter, and his jaw tightened. Elara Voss stood on the other side, silver streaks cutting through her tight dark curls, a smudge of cobalt blue dust on the pulse point of her left wrist, linen button-down unbuttoned one notch too far for the small town’s usual unspoken dress code. He hadn’t seen her in 44 years, not since they walked across the high school gym stage to get their diplomas, and he’d carried a grudge against her every single one of those days. He’d been convinced she ratted him out for sneaking into her best friend’s lake house senior year, the stunt that got him grounded for three months and got his first truck taken away till graduation.
She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and leaned an elbow on the sticky counter, their arms brushing when Moe reached for a mug. “One draft, please. I’d recognize that scowl anywhere, Moe Sorrentino. You still hold that stupid grudge, don’t you?”
He grunted, pulling the tap and filling the mug till foam spilled over the edge. “Only when the person who got me stuck mucking out my dad’s hog pen for three months shows up out of nowhere.”
She laughed, loud and warm, and wiped the foam off the rim with her thumb before licking it off. “That wasn’t me, dummy. That was Lila’s 12-year-old sister, who saw your beat-up F-150 parked behind the boathouse and ran to tell her dad. I tried to talk her out of it, for the record.”
Moe froze mid-wipe of the counter, the rag slipping out of his hand onto the gravel below. He’d never even asked. He’d just assumed, because Elara had always acted like she couldn’t stand him back then, rolling her eyes whenever he came around Lila’s house, leaving the room if he sat down. He’d written her off as a stuck-up priss, and never thought twice about it for four decades.
They talked for the next two hours, as the sun dipped below the treeline and the fairgrounds emptied out, crickets chirping loud enough to drown out the faint country music playing over the tent speakers. She’d moved back to town six months prior, after a messy divorce from a corporate lawyer in Cleveland, ran a small stained glass studio out of the old downtown general store. The blue dust on her wrist was leftover from a window she was cutting for the local Methodist church. She’d acted like she hated him back then, she admitted, because she’d had a crush on him since 10th grade, and had no idea how to talk to him when he was dating her best friend.
Every time she gestured to make a point, her elbow brushed his bicep. She held eye contact longer than anyone else he’d talked to in years, no flicking away to check a phone, no scanning the crowd for someone more interesting. He could smell coconut sunscreen on her skin under the faint smell of solder and beer, and he felt a tight, warm pull low in his gut that he hadn’t felt since Carol got sick, half shame for wasting 40 years mad at the wrong person, half giddy, taboo thrill that he was even talking to her like this, that half the town would probably whisper about it by tomorrow morning.
When the last of the volunteers locked up the fryer stations and yelled that they were closing down for the night, Moe grabbed the half-full cooler of leftover craft beer he’d stashed under the counter and nodded toward the parking lot. “The old lake house is public property now. Got a dock that doesn’t have rotting boards anymore. Wanna go?”
She didn’t even hesitate, grabbing her canvas bag off the counter and following him to his truck, her work boots crunching on the gravel lot beside his. The windows were down the whole drive, Tom Petty playing low on the radio, the wind blowing her curls into her face every time they rounded a curve. They sat on the edge of the dock with their feet dangling in the warm, murky lake water, and when she leaned over to grab a beer out of the cooler, her knee pressed firm against his, no pulling away, no awkward apology.
He reached over before he could talk himself out of it, brushing the leftover cobalt dust off her wrist with his thumb, his skin brushing the fast beat of her pulse under the surface. She didn’t flinch, just leaned in a little closer, till their shoulders were pressed together, fireflies dancing over the lake in front of them.
They stayed out till the moon was high enough to cast silver streaks across the water, and he drove her back to her studio apartment above the storefront, walking her to the door when they pulled up. She leaned up first, kissing him slow on the mouth, tasting like lager and peppermint lip balm, her hand fisting in the front of his flannel shirt for half a second before she pulled back.
He asked if he could come by the next afternoon, help her hang the new church window, since he still had all his old lineman’s harnesses and was good with heights and heavy loads. She nodded, grinning, and told him she’d have coffee ready, extra cream and no sugar, the way he took it, she’d remembered that from when he’d stop by Lila’s house before football games.
He got back in his truck and turned the key, the radio crackling to life again, and he reached up to touch his mouth, still tingling from the kiss.
