Ray Voss, 58, retired utility lineman, leaned against the rough splintered pole of the beer tent, condensation from his Yuengling cup beading on the scar that ran 4 inches down his left forearm. He’d dragged himself to the annual fire department block party only because his next-door neighbor had banged on his door at 2 p.m. and threatened to mow his prized rose bushes if he spent another Saturday holed up watching old football reruns. Three years out from losing his wife to ovarian cancer, he’d settled into a routine of deliberate loneliness, convinced any attempt to connect with someone new felt like cheating, or worse, a sad grab at youth he’d already left behind. The crowd buzzed around him, kids chasing each other with popsicles dripping neon blue down their wrists, a classic rock cover band fumbling through a Tom Petty track off-key by half a note. He’d already turned down three separate advances from women he’d gone to high school with, each one a little too eager to ask if his mortgage was paid off, each one making his skin crawl a little.
He’d been avoiding the pulled pork booth for 45 minutes, intentionally, because he’d seen the woman running it when he first walked in. Clara Bennett, 54, had opened the town’s first tattoo parlor six months prior, and Ray had spent every chance he got complaining to his neighbor that someone her age had no business being covered in ink, that it was a fad for kids who didn’t know any better. But he couldn’t stop looking at her. She had a thick silver streak cutting through the middle of her dark wavy hair, tied back in a loose braid, and a half-sleeve of sunflowers peeking out from the flannel shirt she’d tied around her waist. Her laugh was loud enough to cut over the band, sharp and bright, every time a kid asked for extra barbecue sauce. When his stomach growled loud enough that the guy standing next to him snickered, he caved and walked over to the booth.
She handed him his sandwich in a crumpled wax paper wrapper, and their fingers brushed when he reached for it. He flinched before he could stop himself, not expecting the calluses on her palm, rough and worn just like his, not soft the way he’d assumed they’d be. She raised an eyebrow, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, and nodded at his forearm. “Lineman scar, right? I’ve got a matching one from a tattoo gun slip last winter. Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it?” He stared at her, stunned she’d placed the scar that fast, and nodded, his throat suddenly too dry to talk. She wiped her hands on the thigh of her jeans, which had a smudge of charcoal on the knee, and leaned across the booth a little, close enough that he could smell cedar perfume and the smoky tang of the grill on her shirt. “I saw you over by the beer tent for the last hour. You look like you’d rather be getting a root canal than be here. Am I right?”
He huffed a laugh, caught off guard by how direct she was, and admitted he’d only come to save his roses. She laughed again, that loud bright sound, and said she was only there because the fire department had put out the electrical fire that destroyed her first shop three years prior, so she owed them. For 10 minutes they talked over the noise of the crowd, him leaning against the edge of the booth, her resting her elbows on the counter, their shoulders almost touching every time someone squeezed past them to get a plate. He kept glancing at her sunflower sleeve, and she noticed, holding her arm out so he could see it better. Each sunflower had a tiny initial in the center, she explained, for every kid aging out of the local foster system she’d helped get a job, a security deposit, a ride to college. He felt stupid, then, for judging her so fast, for writing her off as some reckless idiot just because she had ink. That was his flaw, he knew: he saw the outside of something and decided he knew everything about it, no questions asked.
She tilted her head at him, like she could see the gears turning in his head, and nodded toward the tree line at the edge of the park. “The creek down there is quiet. Wanna get away from the noise for a minute?” He hesitated, his first instinct to say no, to go back to the beer tent, to go home and lock the door and pretend this conversation never happened. He thought about what his old lineman buddies would say if they saw him sneaking off to the creek with the tattoo lady. He thought about his wife, who’d once dragged him to a bachelorette party when they were 22 and made him get a temporary tattoo of a unicorn on his bicep, who’d laughed for weeks every time she saw it. He said yes.
The grass crunched under their work boots as they walked, her shoulder brushing his every third step, no small talk, no awkward pauses. The sound of the band faded as they got closer to the water, replaced by the gurgle of the creek and the buzz of crickets in the underbrush. She sat on a half-rotted log half-submerged in the shallow water, and patted the spot next to her. He sat, close enough that their knees touched, and she held her wrist out to show him her scar, thin and white, running along the base of her thumb. She ran a slow, light finger along the scar on his forearm, and he didn’t pull away, felt the heat of her touch spread up his arm, settle warm in his chest, a feeling he’d thought he’d never have again. The disgust he’d carried for months at the thought of even talking to another woman melted away, replaced by something softer, sharper, like he’d been holding his breath for three years and just figured out how to exhale.
They talked for 20 minutes, him telling her about the ice storm he’d been in when he got his scar, how he’d almost fallen 40 feet if his partner hadn’t caught him, how he’d retired six months later when his wife got her diagnosis. She didn’t offer empty pity, didn’t pat his arm and say she was sorry, just nodded, listened, asked him about his rose bushes when he mentioned them. The fire department siren went off back at the park, signaling the start of the annual raffle, and they both stood up, brushing grass off their jeans. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and said she had a free appointment slot open next Saturday, if he wanted to come by the shop, maybe get his scar covered with something, or just hang out and drink the terrible coffee she kept stocked. He nodded, said he’d be there. She smiled, turned, and started walking back toward the party. He stood there for a minute, holding his half-eaten pulled pork sandwich, the spot on his forearm where her finger had rested still warm against the cool evening air.
