Moe Pritchard, 53, vintage slot machine restorer, leans against a splintered oak tree at the county fire department’s annual fall pig roast, half listening to the local high school football coach ramble about last week’s 14-point loss, picking at a smoked pork sandwich slathered in spicy brown mustard. He only showed up because he’d donated a fully restored 1972 Bally slot machine to the raffle, felt obligated to stay long enough that no one called him a hermit behind his back. He’s got a half-warm can of Yuengling in his other hand, his work boots caked in mud from hauling the slot machine out of his drafty workshop that morning, the thin scar on his left wrist from a 2020 incident with a faulty lever spring throbbing a little from the crisp October air. He’s already mapped his exit: stop at the corner gas station for a pack of peanut butter crackers, get back to his shop by 7, mess with the 1960s nickel slot he’s been fixing for a collector in Cleveland, be in bed by 10, no unnecessary human interaction required.
Then she walks over. He’s seen her around town before—Lila, the new part-time librarian, moved to the area three months prior after her daughter started at Penn State, lives in the little blue cottage two streets over from his shop. She’s wearing a faded Steelers hoodie, a red flannel tied around her waist, scuffed work boots, a smudge of charcoal on her left cheekbone like she’d been helping stoke the grill earlier. She’s holding a paper plate with a crumbly piece of cornbread on it, and she stops right in front of him, close enough that he can smell cinnamon gum and pine hand soap over the thick hickory smoke curling off the roast. She nods at the slot machine sitting under the raffle tent ten feet away, says she’s been bugging the fire chief all afternoon to tell her who restored it, loves old arcade and casino hardware, has a small collection of beat-up vintage pinball machines in her basement she’s been trying to fix for months.
He stumbles over his answer at first, which is ridiculous—he talks about slot machine mechanisms for hours on end with collectors across the country over the phone, but he can barely get the words out when she’s looking at him like that, dark eyes crinkled at the corners, not glancing away like most people do when he starts rambling about old coin-op equipment. She leans in when he explains how he had to custom machine a new lever spring for the Bally, because original parts haven’t been manufactured since 1974, and her forearm brushes his, warm through the thin cotton of his work shirt. He flinches first, out of habit—he hasn’t been touched by anyone who isn’t a cashier handing him change in almost eight years, since his wife left him for a solar panel salesman who quoted her a better rate on new roof panels than he could. He doesn’t pull away, though. He lets their arms brush for another three seconds before he gestures at the slot machine, says she can test pull the lever later if she wants, before the raffle drawing.
The internal noise hits him right after he says it. He’s spent the better part of a decade telling himself he doesn’t need this—small talk, casual touches, the quiet thrill of someone being interested in the thing he spends 60 hours a week doing. He feels stupid, almost ashamed, like he’s breaking some unspoken rule he made for himself after the divorce, like the group of retired schoolteachers sitting at the picnic table 20 feet away who are already glancing over and whispering can tell he’s got a stupid flutter in his chest like a 16-year-old asking a girl to prom. He almost makes up an excuse—says he’s got to run, says he forgot he had a call with a client in California—before she grins, says she’d love to test the slot, but only if he pulls the lever with her.
A lanky teen kid rushing to grab a root beer from the cooler bumps into her from behind a minute later, and she stumbles forward, her shoulder hitting his chest. He reacts without thinking, puts his hand on her waist to steady her, his palm warm through the thick fabric of her hoodie. Neither of them moves for a beat. She looks up at him, her face a few inches from his, and he can see flecks of gold in her dark eyes, can hear her breath catch a little. He can feel the retired teachers staring, can hear the football coach yelling at the kid to watch where he’s going, can hear the tinny jingle of the slot machine as someone else pulls its lever, but none of it matters for a second. She’s the first one to pull back, just a little, and she laughs, soft and a little husky, says she’s usually way more coordinated, swears.
She says she’s organizing a vintage game night at the library next month, has been looking for someone who knows how to fix old pinball and slot machines to help set up, maybe run a little demo for the kids and the older folks who remember playing those games back in the 70s and 80s. He almost says no, almost falls back on the same excuse he uses for everything—too busy, too swamped with client work, doesn’t like crowds—before he nods, says he’d be happy to help. She wipes a smudge of barbecue sauce off his chin with her thumb before he can react, her skin soft against his day-old stubble, and he feels his face heat up, which hasn’t happened since he was a teen and got caught making out with his high school girlfriend behind the concession stand at the county fair.
She scribbles her phone number on the back of a crumpled library checkout receipt, tucks it into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt, her fingers brushing his chest through the fabric. She says she’ll text him the details for the game night later, and maybe if he’s not busy next Saturday, he can show her his workshop, see if he has any extra old game parts she can use for display. He nods, can’t get any words out, and she grins, says she’s got to go help pass out more corn on the cob, and turns to walk back to the grill.
He stands there for another five minutes, holding his half-eaten pork sandwich, the can of Yuengling warm and slick with condensation in his hand, the receipt crinkling against his chest when he closes his fist lightly over the pocket. He watches her laugh as she hands a fussy toddler an ear of corn slathered in butter, the charcoal smudge still bright on her cheek, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the urge to rush home to his quiet, empty workshop.
