Elio Ruiz, 62, retired air traffic controller, sat at his usual Formica table at the VFW Friday fish fry, picking at a plate of overcooked cod and the lumpy, vinegar-heavy coleslaw he complained about every week but never stopped ordering. He’d held down this spot by the screen door for seven straight years, ever since he’d moved to the tiny northern Michigan lake town after his wife Gloria died of ovarian cancer, and no regular dared take it. He liked the routine, the quiet, the way no one bothered him if he didn’t feel like talking. He’d spent 28 years barking landing instructions to panicking pilots at O’Hare, had pulled two packed 737s off a collision course with 10 seconds to spare the year he retired, and he’d had enough of small talk, enough of high stakes, enough of letting anyone get close enough to leave a hole when they were gone.
The room was packed that night, the end of September, the last weekend of the tourist season, so when the new town librarian pulled out the chair across from him and asked if she could sit, he almost told her no. He’d heard the gossip around town, the old biddies at the grocery store tittering about how she’d left her husband of 30 years back in Grand Rapids, moved up here alone with nothing but a pickup truck full of books and a golden retriever, how she was “wild” or “running from something.” He didn’t care about any of that, he just wanted to eat his cod in peace, but all the other tables were full, so he grunted and nodded, going back to picking at his food.
She ordered a Bud Light and a cod plate, and for 10 minutes they sat in silence, the air thick with the smell of fried batter and malt vinegar, the clink of beer bottles, the distant roar of a pickup driving down the main road. Then she made a face at her coleslaw, pushed it to the side, and said, “Whoever makes this stuff must hate the entire town.” Elio snorted before he could stop himself. He’d made that exact joke to Gloria once, back when they used to vacation here, and he hadn’t said it out loud since. They started talking after that, first about the terrible coleslaw, then about the way the lake turned gunmetal gray right before a storm, then about the box of 1950s hand-painted fishing lure patterns she’d found tucked in the back of the library’s archives last week. Elio collected vintage lures, had 300 of them mounted on the wall of his cabin, and he leaned in without thinking, his elbow brushing hers across the table.
He pulled back fast, heat crawling up his neck, disgusted with himself. He hadn’t so much as looked at another woman since Gloria died, felt like it was a betrayal, like he was some sad old creep chasing something he had no business touching. He almost grabbed his jacket and left right then, but she was leaning in too, her hazel eyes flecked with gold crinkling at the corners, and he could smell the faint lavender of her hand lotion, not the heavy, cloying stuff Gloria used, something softer, warmer. When they both reached for the jar of extra tartar sauce sitting between them at the same time, their knuckles brushed, and he felt a jolt go all the way up his arm, the kind of spark he hadn’t felt since he was 19, kissing Gloria for the first time in the back of his dad’s Chevy.
The gossipy old biddies at the next table were staring, he could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, but he didn’t care anymore. When she finished her beer, he asked her if she wanted to walk down to his dock, see his lure collection and the 1978 Grady White he was fixing up. He expected her to say no, expected her to laugh and make an excuse, but she nodded, slung her canvas bag over her shoulder, and stood up. He held the screen door open for her, and her shoulder brushed his chest as she walked past, he could feel the warmth of her through his worn flannel shirt, the soft fabric of her sweater against his skin.
The walk to the dock was crisp, maple leaves crunching under their work boots, the air sharp with the smell of pine and wood smoke coming from the cabins along the shore. The lake was dark, the moon a thin sliver hanging low over the water, loons calling faint and high from the middle of the bay. He pulled a frayed wool blanket from the boat shed, spread it out on the dock, and grabbed the tackle box he kept stored there, flipping it open to show her the hand-painted lures. She ran a calloused finger over a red and white one from 1952, her nail chipped with dirt from gardening, and said her dad used to paint ones just like that, back when she was a kid.
She leaned her head on his shoulder for half a second, light as a sparrow, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just rested his hand lightly on the knee of her worn jeans, the rough denim warm under his palm. He traced the raised paint of the 1952 lure with his thumb, and didn’t move when she rested her hand on top of his.
