Cole Henderson, 58, retired power lineman, spent 32 years hauling himself up utility poles in rain, snow, and the rare Portland sun, now builds custom Adirondack chairs and birdhouses out of his garage for extra cash. His biggest flaw, if you ask his only remaining high school buddy, is that he’s dug his heels in so hard against every “newfangled social rule” he’s seen pop up since his wife left him seven years prior that he’ll argue with a stop sign if it has a pronoun sticker on it. He showed up to the neighborhood block party only because his buddy threatened to drop off a crate of kale smoothies on his porch every week for a month if he bailed, and he brought a six pack of Rainier to nurse in the corner by the grill, far away from the craft tables he’d seen advertised on the neighborhood Facebook group.
The smell of charred burgers and grilled onions hung thick in the late August air, the high squeal of kids bouncing on an inflatable castle cutting through the hum of 90s grunge playing off a portable speaker by the picnic tables. He’d just reached for a cheeseburger off the grill when a kid on a scooter zoomed past his feet, and he stumbled sideways, slamming his hip into a folding table stacked with colorful enamel pins. Dozens of them skittered across the asphalt, and he cursed under his breath, kneeling to scoop them up before the table’s owner could yell at him.
His hand brushed hers when they both reached for a sky-blue they/them pin half under a folding chair, and he froze. Her hand was calloused, rough along the pads of her fingers, not soft like he’d expected from the woman he’d seen posting about “inclusive community events” on the neighborhood page last week. He glanced up, and got his first good look at her: mid-50s, silver streaks cutting through dark wavy hair pulled back in a messy braid, constellation tattoos wrapping around her forearms, worn denim overalls over a faded 1998 Pearl Jam tour tee, scuffed work boots caked with sawdust. She smelled like pine and lemon polish, and she laughed, a low, warm sound, when he fumbled a handful of he/him pins. “No harm done,” she said, wiping a smudge of dirt off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Those things go flying if someone so much as sneezes near the table.”
Cole mumbled an apology, brushing gravel off his jeans, and nodded at the pins scattered between them. “Don’t really get the whole thing, if I’m honest,” he said, the words coming out gruffer than he meant them to. “Feels like everyone’s just looking for attention these days.”
She didn’t snap, didn’t launch into a lecture like he’d expected. She just smirked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and nodded at the thick scar wrapping around his left knuckle, the one he’d gotten when he slipped climbing a frozen pole outside Salem in 2018. “I make them for the kids mostly,” she said. “My nephew’s nonbinary, started high school last year, and he says having a pin on his backpack makes him half as likely to get hassled in the hallway. I keep the he/him ones around for grumpy linemen who post woodworking reels on Instagram, too. I recognized that scar from the video you posted last month where you fixed that split oak table leg.”
Cole blinked, shocked. He’d only made that account to post photos of his birdhouses, never thought anyone he actually lived near would see it, let alone pay enough attention to recognize a scar on his hand. They stood up, brushing off their pants, and drifted to the edge of the park, leaning against the trunk of a big Douglas fir as they talked. She told him her name was Mara, she’d moved in next door three months prior, restored mid-century furniture for a living, her dad had been a lineman too, died in 2020 right before he was supposed to retire. She leaned in when he talked about his wife leaving him for a guy she’d met on a hiking trip, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and she didn’t pull away when he didn’t move back. He found himself admitting he’d been so angry at the world for seven years that he’d written off anything he didn’t understand immediately, just so he wouldn’t have to feel stupid for not keeping up.
The sun dipped below the rooflines of the houses across the street, painting the sky pink and orange, and Mara reached into her pocket, pulling out a matte black he/him pin. She stepped closer, the toe of her boot almost touching his, and pinned it to the collar of his faded gray flannel, her fingers brushing the skin of his neck when she adjusted it. He shivered, and she held his gaze for three long beats, her pupils dark, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a small, knowing smile when he glanced at her lips for half a second.
His buddy yelled over from the grill, waving a set of car keys, asking if he was ready to head out. Cole shook his head, not taking his eyes off Mara. She hooked her thumb over her shoulder, toward the row of houses where they both lived. “I’ve got a 1962 dresser I’m restoring in my garage,” she said. “Split leg on the left side. Been stuck on how to fix it for a week. Wanna come take a look? I’ve got a twelve pack of Rainier in the fridge, and we don’t have to talk about pins if you don’t want to.”
Cole nodded, his fingers brushing the cool enamel of the pin on his collar. He still didn’t care much about the pins, not really, but he cared that she cared enough to make them, cared enough to pay attention to his stupid Instagram reels, cared enough to not yell at him when he was being an asshole. She grabbed his wrist, her calloused fingers wrapping around the skin just above his watch, to pull him over to say hi to her nephew, who was sitting on a blanket a few feet away eating a blue popsicle. His skin burned where her hand touched him, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel the urge to turn and run the other way.
