Wendell Pruitt had spent thirty-one years cataloging other people’s failures. As a forensic accountant for the state of Ohio, he could trace a lie through a spreadsheet the way a bloodhound follows a scent. He was fifty-eight, precise, and quietly proud of the fact that nothing surprised him anymore. His wife had left him three years prior for a man who sold pontoon boats, citing Wendell’s “emotional unavailable-ness,” a phrase she’d lifted straight from a magazine. He hadn’t argued. He’d simply logged it as a loss and moved on.
The community center on Maple Street held a singles mixer every third Thursday. Wendell attended exactly one, at his sister’s insistence, and spent forty minutes near the pretzel bowl, calculating the cost-per-unit of the generic mustard. That was where he first saw Dolores Kincaid.
She was sixty-two, a retired high school chemistry teacher with a laugh that cut through the room like a struck tuning fork. She wore a green dress that made her eyes look like sea glass, and she was holding court near the punch bowl, telling a story about a lab experiment gone wrong. Wendell watched her hands move—expressive, sure—and felt a strange, unwelcome pull. He left early.
Two weeks later, she appeared at his bank. Wendell was there disputing a fee, and she was at the next window, arguing about a certificate of deposit. Her voice rose. She was right, and the teller was wrong, and Wendell found himself stepping in, quietly citing the relevant regulation. Dolores turned to him, eyes narrowing.
“You always rescue strangers?” she asked.
“Only when the math is on their side,” he said.
She laughed. It was a low, warm sound that settled somewhere behind his sternum. They walked out together. The February air bit at their cheeks. She lived three blocks east; he lived two blocks north. They walked in the same direction, shoulders nearly brushing.
“You’re the pretzel guy,” she said.
He flushed. “You noticed.”
“I notice everything. Chemistry teacher.”
They fell into step. Her coat sleeve grazed his. He felt the brush of wool against his wrist like a small electric shock. She smelled of peppermint and something woodier underneath. He kept his eyes forward, but he was acutely aware of the six inches between their hands.
They began meeting for coffee. Tuesdays, usually. The diner on Grand had cracked vinyl booths and a waitress named Marge who called everyone “hon.” Dolores would slide into the booth across from him, and her knee would sometimes bump his under the table. She never apologized. Neither did he.
The conflict was immediate and absurd. Wendell was a man who believed in order. Dolores was chaos in a cardigan—she left sugar packets in neat little rows, but her hair escaped its clip by noon. She was twelve years his senior’s sister’s age, which is to say she was sixty-two to his fifty-eight, and yet she made him feel like a teenager fumbling in a dark car. He didn’t like it. He liked it too much. He started avoiding her calls, then answering them on the first ring.
One evening in late March, she invited him to a community theater production of “Arsenic and Old Lace.” He hated theater. He went anyway. During intermission, they stood in the lobby, and she reached up to straighten his collar. Her fingers brushed his neck. He went still.
“You’re tense,” she said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Wendell. For an accountant.”
He looked at her. The lobby lights were harsh, but she looked soft. Her lips were parted, and she was watching him the way she watched a titration—patient, curious, waiting for the color to change.
“I don’t do this,” he said.
“Do what?”
“This. Whatever this is.”
She smiled. “You’re doing it right now.”
The climax came on a Tuesday in April. They were at the diner, and Marge had just refilled their coffee, and Dolores was telling a story about a student who had accidentally synthesized a small amount of hydrogen sulfide. Wendell was laughing—actually laughing, head back, shoulders loose—when she reached across the table and put her hand over his. Her palm was warm. Her thumb pressed into the soft web between his thumb and forefinger.
He stopped laughing.
“Dolores,” he said.
“Wendell,” she said.
“I’m not good at this.”
“I know.”
“I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.”
She squeezed his hand. “You will. Probably. So will I. That’s the deal.”
He looked at their hands. His were pale and clean, nails trimmed. Hers were freckled, a small scar on the knuckle. The diner hummed around them—the clatter of plates, the hiss of the grill. He felt the heat of her palm travel up his arm. He turned his hand over and laced his fingers through hers. It was a small thing. It was everything.
They walked out into the parking lot. The sun was setting behind the Piggly Wiggly. She stopped by her car, a battered Honda, and turned to him.
“This is the part where you kiss me,” she said.
He did. It was awkward at first—nose bump, wrong angle—but then she tilted her head and her mouth softened under his, and he felt her hand come up to rest on his chest. He kissed her like a man who had been holding his breath for years.
He pulled back. Her eyes were still closed.
“That was statistically significant,” he said.
She opened one eye. “You’re a dork.”
“I know.”
She kissed him again, quick and hard, then got in her car. He stood in the parking lot until her taillights disappeared.
They are together now. He still keeps spreadsheets. She still leaves sugar packets everywhere. On Sundays, they go to the diner, and Marge calls them “the lovebirds,” and Wendell pretends to hate it. He doesn’t. He reaches across the table and takes Dolores’s hand, and she squeezes back, and the coffee goes cold between them.
