Manny Rios, 62, retired diesel locomotive engineer, leaned against the splintered wooden fence of the VFW post’s back patio, paper plate of fried catfish and vinegar coleslaw in one hand, sweating bottle of Shiner Bock in the other. He’d shown up only because his poker buddy had begged him, complaining the turnout for the annual summer fish fry was too low this year, and Manny hated letting people down even if he’d rather be home on his porch with his hound dog and a western. The air smelled like hot grease, charcoal, and cut grass, the twang of a local country band’s steel guitar warbling over the chatter of kids chasing each other with popsicles and veterans swapping war stories over folding tables. His left knee ached, a leftover from a 2018 derailment that had ended his career 3 years earlier than planned, and he shifted his weight to take the pressure off, turning just as a woman in a paint-splattered linen button down stepped back to avoid a toddler darting past with a mouth full of cupcake.
Their forearms brushed first, sun-warmed skin against his, the faint scent of turpentine and coconut sunscreen hitting him before he even looked down. He mumbled an apology, ready to step back and disappear into the crowd, until she said his name, sharp and warm, like she’d been practicing it. He blinked, and recognized her immediately: Clara Marlow, 58, ex-wife of his old railroad running mate Ron, who he’d not seen since Ron and Clara split in 2001, when she’d left town to pursue mural work out west. She had a smudge of sky blue paint streaked across her left cheekbone, silver threads woven through the dark braid slung over her shoulder, and the same crinkles around her hazel eyes that he’d spent so many late 90s rail runs pretending he didn’t stare at when Ron wasn’t looking.
His first instinct was to lie, say she had the wrong guy, turn and leave. For 25 years, she’d been off limits, married to his friend, the kind of quiet crush you don’t admit to anyone, not even your wife, because it feels like a betrayal of everyone involved. His throat went dry, and he wiped his greasy fingers on the thigh of his worn denim jeans, about to make an excuse about needing to get home to his dog, when she laughed, loud and easy, and asked if he still snuck peppermint patties into his lunch pail to eat on overnight runs through the Hill Country, the way he’d done when the three of them would carpool to the rail yard at 4 a.m.
He laughed before he could stop himself, and they fell into conversation like no time had passed at all. She was in town for two more weeks, hired by the VFW to paint the veteran memorial wall facing the main road, and she’d crashed the fry because the post commander had insisted she eat for free while she worked. Every time she leaned in to hear him over a loud chord from the band, her shoulder pressed against his, and he could feel the heat of her through his thin work shirt, his chest tight with a weird mix of shame and giddiness he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to stare, for Ron to pop out of the crowd and call him out for flirting with his ex, even though he knew Ron had remarried twice now and lived in Florida, running a bait shop on the Gulf. He hated that part of himself, the part that felt like he was doing something dirty, like he was cheating on his late wife even though she’d been gone 8 years, even though she’d told him before she died to stop being such a stubborn ass and find someone to make him laugh when she was gone.
The sun dipped low over the oak trees lining the parking lot, painting the sky pink and tangerine, when she wiped a crumb of hushpuppy off her chin and asked if he wanted to walk down to the old rail yard, watch the sunset over the tracks. He hesitated for half a second, the voice in his head screaming that he was too old for this, that he’d make a fool of himself, that it was wrong, before he looked at that blue paint smudge on her cheek, and said yes.
The gravel crunched under their work boots as they walked the half mile to the yard, the sound of the band fading behind them, crickets starting to chirp in the tall grass along the fence line. They stopped at the old signal box he used to man on overnight runs, the metal dented and rusted now, covered in teen graffiti. She leaned against it, crossing her arms over her chest, and told him she’d had a crush on him back then too, that she’d thought about him more than once over the last 20 years, that she’d been too scared to say anything when she was married, too convinced it would blow up her whole life.
He didn’t say anything for a long minute, the hum of a distant freight train rumbling through the darkening sky. He reached up, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek as he wiped the leftover blue paint smudge away, his knuckles brushing the edge of her jaw. She didn’t pull away, just looked up at him, her hazel eyes glinting in the last of the sunset light.
They stayed there until the first fireflies started blinking in the grass, talking about the old runs, the time Ron had fallen asleep at the controls and they’d almost missed their stop in San Antonio, the way time slips by faster than you ever think it will, how easy it is to talk yourself out of things that feel good because you’re scared of looking stupid. When he walked her back to her rental car parked by the post, she squeezed his hand, calloused from years of holding paint rollers and climbing scaffolding, and told him she’d be at the wall at 9 a.m. the next day, if he wanted to bring her a black coffee and watch her work.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and got in his beat up Ford F-150, pulling out of the parking lot slowly, his knee not aching half as bad as it had a few hours earlier. He pulled into his driveway a few minutes later, turned off the engine, and smiled when he realized he already had a bag of peppermint patties stashed in the center console for tomorrow.
