Roland Voss, 62, retired forensic entomologist, picks at a crumb of cornmeal breading on his Formica table at the VFW, the faint briny tang of fried cod hanging thick in the cinder block room. He’s halfway through his second Bud Light, ignoring the row of guys at the bar yelling about the Bengals’ week three loss, because he never gave a shit about football even when he had a work pool to pretend to care for. He spent 34 years picking bug parts off dead bodies to nail down time of death for the state police, so yelling over a game where men run around in spandex always felt a little ridiculous to him. He’s just about to get up to leave when the door swings open, and he spots Lila Marquez, the 34-year-old county public health inspector he’d only ever seen in a neon vest and steel toed boots, walking in wearing high-waisted jeans and a faded Johnny Cash tee, her dark curly hair loose instead of pulled back in the tight bun he was used to.
She scans the room, spots him, and gives a warm smile that makes the corner of her eye crinkle, the same smile she’d given him six months prior when she’d showed up to do a surprise inspection of the VFW kitchen and he’d helped her shoo a line of ants off the counter before she could write them up. All the other tables are packed, so she walks over, tilts her chin at the empty seat across from him. “Mind if I crash? Mom’s on the auxiliary tonight, I’m here to haul trash after and avoid my ex’s texts.” He nods, shifts his tackle box of half-restored fishing lures he’d brought to tinker with over to the bench beside him, so she has room to set her own beer down. Her knee brushes his when she sits, just a quick, accidental graze of denim, and he tenses up so fast he almost knocks over his beer. He’d spent his whole career cultivating impenetrable boundaries, no chit chat that veered too personal, no lingering eye contact, because if a defense attorney could paint him as unprofessional, his testimony would get thrown out faster than he could identify a blowfly larva. His late wife Carol used to tease him that he was so uptight he could make a marble statue look relaxed.
They make small talk first, she complains about a local diner that keeps failing health checks because the owner refuses to fix their moldy walk-in fridge, he rants about the spotted lanternflies that have been eating his grape vines all summer. She leans in when he talks, elbows on the table, eyes locked on his, no phone in her hand, no half-glances at the guys yelling at the TV behind him. When he mentions he’s planting garlic next weekend, she laughs, says she saw him out in his yard last Saturday, kneeling in the dirt in those ratty gray flannel pajama pants he swears are appropriate yard wear. He feels his ears go pink, he had no idea anyone was watching. He’s just about to make a self-deprecating joke about being a boring old man when she shifts forward again, their knees press together under the table this time, deliberate, not accidental, and she doesn’t pull back. “I actually have a favor to ask,” she says, her voice a little lower, so he has to lean in to hear her over the jukebox playing old Merle Haggard deep cuts. “I’ve got a rental cabin up by the state park, there’s some weird beetles eating the floor joists, I’ve had three exterminators tell me three different things. I heard you’re the bug guy around here.”
The old Roland would have said no immediately, would have cited his retired status, would have made an excuse about being busy with the garden, would have avoided the way his chest felt tight and warm and alive in a way it hadn’t since Carol was still well enough to go on their weekend camping trips up to the same state park. He can almost hear that old uptight voice in his head, yammering about small town gossip, about the 28 year age gap, about how he was supposed to be grieving, not chatting up a woman half his age over fried cod. He ignores it, for the first time in as long as he can remember. He asks her what kind of beetles, she pulls out her phone to show him photos, her shoulder presses against his when she leans over to hold the screen close, he can smell coconut shampoo and the faint vanilla of her perfume, hear the soft huff of her laugh when he points out it’s just common powder post beetles, nothing to panic over. When he reaches for his beer at the same time she reaches for the bottle of apple cider vinegar on the table, their hands brush, her fingers are warm, calloused at the tips from the woodworking she mentions she does on the side. He doesn’t pull away, for a beat, just holds the contact, and she grins, slow and bright.
She asks him if he’ll come up tomorrow to take a look, says she’ll pay him double whatever the exterminators quoted, plus cook him a ribeye for dinner, the kind with the thick fat cap that he loves, that Carol used to make him for their anniversary every year. He says yes before he can overthink it. She scribbles her address and the gate code on a crumpled cocktail napkin, presses it into his palm, her fingers linger on his wrist for two full seconds, long enough for him to feel the edge of her chipped dark red nail polish. She stands up, grabs her beer, winks. “Don’t wear the flannel pajama pants. Unless you want to.” She walks off to help her mom carry a tray of coleslaw to the bar, glancing back over her shoulder at him once, twice, grinning both times.
He sits there for another 20 minutes, finishes his beer, tucks the napkin into the front pocket of his worn work jeans, the paper soft against his thigh. He drives home slowly, the windows rolled down, the crisp September air biting at his cheeks, stops at the grocery store on the way, buys a bottle of the dry cabernet sauvignon Carol used to save for special occasions, and a bar of 70% cacao dark chocolate he remembers Lila mentioning she liked when they talked about cheap gas station candy at the inspection six months prior. He walks in his quiet, empty front door, sets the wine and chocolate on the linoleum kitchen counter, pulls the napkin out of his pocket, smooths it flat against the surface, and taps the scrawled address once with his calloused index finger.
