Moe Pritchard, 61, made his living restoring antique railroad lanterns out of the cinder block workshop behind his small cabin 12 miles outside Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He’d avoided the town’s annual summer street dance every year since his wife Lynn died of ovarian cancer in 2015, dismissing the event as overcrowded, loud, and full of people who’d only ask him how he was holding up, like they cared more about checking a kindness box than hearing the actual answer. He’d spent the whole day stripping rust off a 1927 Milwaukee Road lantern he’d pulled from a scrap pile at a farm auction the previous weekend, and was walking his border collie Gus down Main Street around 8 p.m. when the smell of fried cheese curds and citronella tiki torches hit him, followed by the twang of a country cover band hammering through an Alan Jackson deep cut he and Lynn used to blast on road trips. He tied Gus to the rail outside the pop-up beer tent, dug three crumpled dollar bills out of his work jeans pocket, and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon, figuring he’d stay for one drink before heading home to his quiet couch and a replay of the Brewers game.
He was leaning against a splintered plywood table, wiping condensation off the side of his can, when he spotted her. Clara Hale, 58, ran the children’s section at the Eau Claire public library, and her late husband Tom had run the regional railroad museum where Moe donated half his restored lanterns every year. Back when both their spouses were alive, they’d crossed paths a dozen times at museum fundraisers and holiday potlucks, and Moe had always felt a quiet, unnameable pull toward her, the kind he’d immediately stamped down with guilt, like he was cheating on Lynn even by noticing the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at a bad joke. He’d heard she’d been widowed two years after Lynn, Tom dropping dead of a heart attack mid-lecture about 1950s locomotive engines, but he’d never gone out of his way to reach out, too wrapped up in his own grief to dig into anyone else’s.
She was wearing faded high-waisted jeans and a white linen button-down rolled up to her elbows, a smudge of bright blue ink on her left thumb from stamping library books, and she was carrying a plastic cup of white wine, dodging a group of drunk college kids running toward the food trucks. When she looked up and caught him staring, she didn’t look away. She smiled, small and private, and walked over to his table, her brown work boots scuffing the blacktop. She stopped just close enough that he could smell the lavender hand lotion she wore, the same scent he’d noticed on her at the 2014 museum gala. She reached for the napkin dispenser on the table at the same time he did, their elbows brushing for half a second, a jolt of warmth zipping up Moe’s arm so fast he almost dropped his beer. He felt that familiar twist of guilt in his gut, like Lynn was watching him from somewhere, but he couldn’t make himself step back.
They talked for 20 minutes, first about the lantern he’d just finished, then about the summer reading program she was running at the library, then about how much Tom and Lynn had both hated this exact street dance, complaining every year about the overpriced beer and the bad cover bands. Moe kept catching himself staring at her mouth when she talked, and he’d have to look away, his face hot, like he was a 16 year old kid with a crush instead of a grown man who’d been married for 32 years. When she sat down across from him, her boot brushed his under the table, and she didn’t yank it away.
When the band slowed down to a wobbly cover of “I Swear”, Clara pushed her chair back and held out her hand, her nails short and unpolished, the blue ink still smudged on her thumb. Moe hesitated for two full beats, his first thought that this was wrong, that he was betraying the life he’d built with Lynn, that people would talk. Then he looked at Clara, her eyes soft, no pity in them, just something bright and alive he hadn’t seen in anyone in years, and he took her hand. Her palm was warm, calloused at the edges from turning pages all day, and when they got to the dance floor, she stepped close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest, her hand resting light on his upper arm, the heat of her seeping through his worn flannel shirt. They didn’t talk for the whole song, just swayed back and forth, Moe’s hand resting light on her waist, and when the song ended, she didn’t step away.
They danced three more fast songs that had them laughing when they stepped on each other’s feet, before Gus barked loud from the rail, sharp and insistent, reminding Moe he’d left him tied up for almost an hour. Moe walked Clara to her beat-up 2008 Ford F-150 parked two blocks over, and when they got to the driver’s side door, she pulled a crumpled grocery receipt out of her purse, scribbled her cell number on the back in that same bright blue ink, and handed it to him. She leaned in, pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, her cherry lip balm leaving a faint pink mark he wouldn’t think to wipe off until he was halfway home.
He untied Gus, who trotted next to him down the dark sidewalk, his tail wagging, and Moe reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the crumpled receipt, warm from being pressed against his leg.
