Dale Hargrove, 62, retired highway bridge inspector, had avoided the annual Maplewood summer fish fry for three straight years, ever since his wife Linda’s ovarian cancer took her two weeks before their 34th anniversary. He’d spent four decades hauling a 20-pound tool belt up suspension cables and over cracked concrete abutments, had a scar slicing through his left eyebrow from a 2017 slip on an icy overpass, and his most consistent personality flaw was his stubborn refusal to let anyone talk him into doing something he’d already decided he wasn’t going to do. His only friend from the department had shown up on his porch at 4 PM that day, holding a six pack of Dale’s favorite root beer, and had basically dragged him to the park, saying if he spent one more night sanding old pocket watches alone in his basement he was gonna turn into a dust bunny with a pulse.
The line for catfish stretched 20 deep, the air thick with the smell of cornmeal batter, hickory smoke, and OFF! bug spray that clung to every T-shirt within 50 feet. Dale was staring at the dented metal fryer at the front of the line, half considering ditching his paper plate and slipping out the back of the park, when a woman stepped into the empty spot next to him, her elbow brushing his bicep as she adjusted the tote bag slung over her shoulder. He glanced over. She was somewhere in her late 50s, dark wavy hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of blue ink on the side of her jaw, and she was frowning at the stack of lemon wedges on the folding table between the line and the soda coolers like they’d personally offended her.
They reached for the same wedge at the exact same time. His calloused, work-roughened knuckles brushed hers, cool and soft, and he flinched like he’d touched a live wire. She chuckled, holding up her hands in surrender, and said she still hadn’t figured out if the lemon wedges were for the fish or just for decoration, since every old guy in line had side-eyed her when she reached for two the last time she was at a town event. He found himself smiling before he could stop himself, told her he’d been coming to these things since he was 10, the rule was you could take as many as you want as long as you didn’t hoard them for your sweet tea. She introduced herself as Marnie Torres, the new part-time librarian, moved to town four months prior from Tucson after her divorce was finalized, spent her weekends gluing spines back on beat-up 1970s mystery paperbacks. He told her he fixed pocket watches in his basement, had a collection of 72 that he’d picked up at garage sales across three states.
They grabbed their food and found an empty picnic table at the edge of the crowd, far enough away that they didn’t have to shout over the local cover band’s rendition of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” but close enough to watch the kids chase each other with melting cherry popsicles. Her knee brushed his under the table once, then again, and he didn’t shift away. He kept waiting for that familiar twist of guilt in his gut, the voice that sounded exactly like Linda telling him he was being disrespectful, that he should go home and be alone like he was supposed to. But all he could focus on was the way she gestured with her hands when she talked about the kid who’d checked out 12 dinosaur books in a row last week, the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes when the sun hit them just right, the faint smell of lavender hand cream that cut through the fried food smell every time she leaned in to ask him a question about his bridge inspection days. She rolled up her sleeve at one point to show him a tiny tattoo of an open book on her wrist, said she got it for her 50th birthday, her ex-husband had called it “juvenile” so she’d waited until he moved out to get it. He showed her the scar on his eyebrow, told her he’d slipped on black ice and fallen 10 feet onto a pile of rebar, Linda had teased him for three weeks about having a “bad boy scar” when he was the most boring man alive.
The band switched to a slow, twangy cover of Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” and Marnie tilted her head at him, her foot tapping under the table to the beat. You dance? she asked. Dale froze. He hadn’t danced since his 25th wedding anniversary, when Linda had talked him into swaying with her in the living room after their kids had gone to bed, and he’d stepped on her foot three times in the span of five minutes. The guilt hit him then, sharp and hot, like he was cheating on the woman he’d spent most of his life with just by sitting there talking to someone else. Then he remembered the last conversation he’d had with Linda, in the hospice room, her hand thin and cold in his, telling him she didn’t want him to close the world off after she was gone, that he deserved to have fun, to laugh with someone, to not spend the rest of his life talking only to old pocket watches. He pushed himself up from the table, wiping his greasy hands on the side of his jeans, and said he was terrible at it, but he’d give it a shot.
He stepped on her toe twice in the first minute, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, leaning her forehead against his shoulder to muffle the sound. The song ended before he could get the hang of the rhythm, and Marnie pulled back, her cheeks pink, and asked if she could come by his house sometime to see his pocket watch collection, she had an old 1960s Timex she’d found in a library book donation bin that wouldn’t tick no matter what she did. Dale pulled the beat-up silver tape measure he kept in his front pocket everywhere he went, flicked it open to show her the tiny engraving Linda had put on the metal casing for his 50th birthday: “Measure twice, kiss once.” He’d spent three years thinking that line was only for the life he’d had with Linda, but standing there with the sun warm on his face, Marnie’s hand still resting light on his arm, he realized it applied to whatever came next too. He slipped the tape measure back into his pocket, nodded, and told her he’d bring the coffee.
