Javi Mendez, 52, makes his living fixing retro arcade cabinets across northern Ohio, hauling a toolbox full of soldering irons and replacement 1980s circuit boards in the bed of his dented 2004 Ford F-150. His sister had nagged him for three weeks straight to come to the small town’s annual summer street fair, saying the beer tent had local craft lager and she’d introduce him to a friend of hers who “loves old pinball machines too.” He’d almost bailed three times on the drive over, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, convinced he’d end up standing in a corner alone while a bunch of retired couples bragged about their grandkids. He’d only stayed because the first sip of lager was cold enough to cut through the thick, humid July air, sharp with the smell of fried Oreos and grilled corn from the food carts lining the street.
His sister bailed 12 minutes after they arrived, running off when her daughter texted that her 4-year-old had won first place in the pet costume contest with a goldfish wearing a tiny cowboy hat. Javi was left holding two full plastic cups of lager, turning on his heel to find an empty picnic table when his shoulder slammed into someone hard enough to slosh half an inch of beer over the rim of one cup, soaking the front of a cream linen shirt right at the collarbone.
He stammered an apology, grabbing a crumpled stack of napkins from the nearest table before he even looked up. When he did, he recognized her immediately: Elara, who ran the used bookstore on Main Street, the one with the faded neon “OPEN” sign in the window and a shelf of free vintage comic books by the door he’d snuck a few from over the years. She didn’t flinch back when he dabbed at the wet spot on her shirt, his calloused knuckle brushing the warm skin just above her neckline, and he caught the scent of jasmine lotion mixed with the roasted peanuts she was holding in a paper bag. The small, dark beer stain spread into a lopsided shape, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the hum of the nearby Tilt-A-Whirl and the chatter of the crowd. “Looks like a tiny map of Lake Erie,” she said, tapping the spot with one manicured fingernail painted a deep forest green. “Better than the wine stain I got on this shirt last week that looked like a dead squirrel.”
He offered her the extra lager he was holding to make up for it, and their fingers brushed when she took it, her hand softer than he expected, a thin silver ring shaped like a raven on her index finger. She said she’d come to the fair with her book club, but all of them had wandered off to hit the craft booths, leaving her alone to wait in line for peanuts for 20 minutes. He sat down at the empty picnic table across from her, and for the first time in years, he didn’t feel the urge to make an excuse to leave. They talked about the terrible 90s cover band playing on the stage at the end of the street, about the arcade cabinet he’d fixed the week before for a bowling alley in Toledo, a 1981 Pac-Man that had been broken for 10 years, about the back room of her bookstore where she kept a broken Pac-Man machine of her own she’d bought at a garage sale two years prior, never able to find someone who knew how to fix it.
Javi’s first instinct was to make an excuse, to say he was booked solid for the next month, that he didn’t do side jobs for people he barely knew. That was the habit he’d built over the seven years since his wife left, keeping everyone at arm’s length, convinced he was too set in his ways, too grumpy, too prone to spending 12 hour days covered in solder fumes to be worth anyone’s time. But she was leaning forward across the table now, her elbows propped on the worn wood, her eyes locked on his, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like they actually cared what he had to say, not just waiting for their turn to talk about their grandkids or their golf handicap. He offered to come look at the machine the next day, free of charge, to make up for the beer stain. She teased him, said the only payment she accepted was a slice of the peach pie she baked every Sunday, and he laughed so hard he snort-laughed, a sound he hadn’t made since he was a teenager.
The fireworks started right then, loud, colorful bursts lighting up the dark sky above the beer tent, and the crowd around them cheered, a group of teens running past so close they had to scoot closer together to stay out of the way. His shoulder pressed against hers, warm through the thin fabric of her shirt, and she tilted her head up to look at him, her hand resting on his forearm for a beat longer than a friendly touch, her thumb brushing the edge of the tattoo he had of a Space Invader on his wrist. He didn’t pull away. He told her he’d almost skipped the fair entirely, that he’d spent the last seven years turning down every invite his sister sent him, convinced he’d be happier alone. She said she’d almost skipped too, that her book club had been trying to set her up with a retired tax accountant who only talked about his golf swing, and she’d been planning to fake a migraine and leave 10 minutes before he showed up.
When the last firework faded, her friends waved her over from the entrance of the tent, calling her name. She grabbed a napkin from the stack on the table, scribbled her bookstore address and her personal cell phone number on it in blue ballpoint pen, tucking it into the breast pocket of his work flannel, her fingers brushing the edge of the chest hair peeking out of the top of his undershirt. “Back door’s unlocked at 10 tomorrow,” she said, grinning, her silver hoop earrings catching the glow of the string lights strung above the tent. “Don’t forget your soldering iron. And bring an empty plate for the pie.” She winked, turning to walk toward her friends, looking over her shoulder once to wave before she disappeared into the crowd.
Javi stood there for a minute, his fingers pressed to the napkin through the fabric of his pocket, listening to the distant clang of a carnival game bell and the soft murmur of the crowd around him. He pulled his phone out, texting his sister that he didn’t need the ride she’d offered, he was walking home, he wanted to stop by his shop first to grab the Pac-Man replacement circuit board he knew he had stored in a plastic bin by the front door.
