Roland Voss, 67, spent 38 years climbing utility poles for western Ohio’s rural power co-op, and the scar slashing across his left cheek from a 2018 ice storm fall wasn’t the only leftover from the job. He was stubborn to a fault, had calluses so thick he couldn’t feel a paper cut if he tried, and hadn’t so much as asked a woman for her phone number since his ex-wife left him 12 years prior for a 35-year-old real estate agent with a hair transplant and a speedboat. He spent most of his retirement sanding down the body of a 1972 F100 in his detached garage, and showed up to the VFW’s Friday night fish fry like clockwork, always taking the same scuffed corner table, always ordering one Bud Light and a plate of extra crispy catfish with extra vinegar on the coleslaw.
The air that night smelled like fried batter, honey-dusted hushpuppies, and the faint wood smoke seeping in through the back door where the guys were stoking the fire pit for later. The jukebox was spitting out old Johnny Cash, loud enough to cover the sound of the guys at the bar arguing over Ohio State’s latest loss, quiet enough that he could hear when the front door creaked open and two pairs of boots scuffed across the worn linoleum. He looked up halfway through biting into a piece of catfish, and froze. It was Mara, the new county librarian, the one he’d been stealing glances at every Tuesday when he stopped in to check out old western DVDs. He’d never seen her out of the frumpy cardigans and loafers she wore behind the circulation desk. Tonight she had on a faded green flannel, ripped dark jeans, and steel-toe work boots caked in mud, her brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a smudge of dirt on her left jaw. She was with her 10-year-old niece, who was toting a neon green Girl Scout cookie carrier, waving order forms at anyone who made eye contact.
He looked back down at his plate fast, ears burning. He’d spent the last six months telling himself he was a creepy old bastard for even noticing her, 25 years his junior, sharp as a tack, the kind of woman who read poetry for fun and volunteered at the animal shelter on weekends. He was a guy who’d failed 10th grade English twice, who spent his weekends covered in motor oil, who still had a dent in his right shoulder from the time a 50-pound transformer fell on him. They had nothing in common. People would talk if he so much as said hello to her in public, would whisper that he was just another old guy chasing a woman half his age.
The girl was at his table before he could pretend to be busy drinking his beer. “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout cookies? We have Thin Mints and Samoas and Tagalongs,” she said, grinning so wide her dimples showed. Mara leaned over the table right behind her, pulling a blank order form out of her jacket pocket, and her forearm brushed his knuckles as she set it down. The contact sent a jolt up his arm. He could smell lavender hand cream on her skin, mixed with the sharp, clean scent of pine, like she’d been splitting firewood earlier that day. She held his gaze for three full seconds, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half smile, before she nodded at the stack of western DVDs he’d left on the seat next to him. “Recognize those. You’re the guy who checks out every John Wayne movie we have in the collection, right? I’ve been putting the rare ones aside for you when they come in through donations.”
He blinked, too flustered to speak for a second. He’d always thought she was just being polite when she handed him his receipt at the library, never realized she paid enough attention to know what he liked. He huffed a laugh, wiping a crumb of catfish off his chin. “Didn’t think the librarian paid attention to a guy who only checks out movies where half the dialogue is people shooting at each other.” She laughed, a warm, throaty sound that made the back of his neck tingle, and pulled a chair out next to him, sitting down while her niece ran off to badger the group of retired firefighters at the bar. Their knees were almost touching under the table, close enough that he could feel the heat off her leg through the thick denim of his work jeans. “My dad was a lineman, same as you. Spent 30 years climbing poles up near Toledo. I know better than to judge a guy by what he watches to unwind.”
He felt the familiar twist of conflict in his gut, half want, half shame. He wanted to lean in closer, to ask her if she wanted to get out of there and get a beer somewhere quieter, to find out if her hair was as soft as it looked. But the voice in the back of his head was screaming that he was too old, too rough, that everyone in the hall was already staring, that she’d laugh in his face if he so much as suggested it. He picked at a loose thread on his flannel, staring at the table, until she nudged his boot with hers under the table. “You know, I’ve been waiting six months for you to say more than ‘thank you’ when you come to the desk. I was starting to think you hated me.”
He looked up fast, and she was leaning in, her voice low enough that no one else could hear, her eyes dark and warm. The shame melted away fast, replaced by a giddy, tight feeling in his chest he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking his dad’s car out to take girls to the drive-in. He shook his head, grinning. “Hate you? Hell, I was scared you’d think I was a pervert for looking at you too long.” She snort-laughed, reaching across the table to tap the scar on his cheek with her index finger, her touch light and warm. “Scars are just stories you carry on your skin. I like stories.”
He asked her to coffee Saturday morning before he could talk himself out of it. She said yes immediately, pulling a pen out of her jacket pocket and scribbling her cell number on a crumpled paper napkin, tucking it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing his chest for half a second. Her niece came running back a minute later, yelling that she’d sold every last box of cookies she had, and Mara stood up, slinging her jacket over her shoulder, winking at him. “Don’t be late. I like my coffee black, no sugar.” She walked out, the girl bouncing at her heels, and Roland sat there staring at the edge of the napkin peeking out of his pocket for ten minutes straight, his beer getting warm on the table in front of him. When his buddy Earl slapped him on the back and asked why he was grinning like a kid who just stole a peach pie off a neighbor’s windowsill, he just tucked the napkin deeper into his pocket and flagged down the waitress to order another beer.
