Roland Voss, 62, retired high-voltage lineman from Toledo, had sat at the same splintered pine picnic table at the county fire department’s weekly fish fry every Friday for three years straight. He showed up 15 minutes early, got the spot farthest from the loudspeaker blasting old country, ordered two pieces of catfish, extra slaw, no hushpuppies, and sat alone until he finished. Since his wife Ellen died eight years prior, he’d made a point of keeping interactions with strangers short, small, and strictly transactional. It was easier that way, he told himself—no messy feelings, no risk of letting someone get close enough to make him forget the life he’d built before.
The air that night smelled like fried cornmeal, vinegar, and cut grass, still warm even as the sun dipped below the Blue Ridge ridgeline west of town. The first few weeks after COVID restrictions lifted, he’d hated how close people stood, how they hugged, how they didn’t flinch when someone brushed their shoulder. He’d gotten used to the buffer, the quiet, the rule that he didn’t have to engage with anyone he didn’t want to.
He was mid-bite of catfish when he heard the clatter of a plastic tray tipping. He looked up just in time to catch the elbow of the woman stumbling over the cooler propped next to his table, his calloused palm wrapping around the soft curve of her forearm before she face-planted into the gravel. She steadied herself, her free hand pressing lightly to his chest for half a second, and laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the rattle of the nearby cornhole game. “You just saved me a whole tray of slaw and a very embarrassing trip to urgent care,” she said, leaning in close enough that he could smell lavender hand lotion and a faint whiff of cigarette smoke under the fried food scent hanging in the air.
He let go of her arm fast, like he’d touched a live wire, and nodded, his throat suddenly dry. She was 58, he guessed, with streaks of silver running through her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smudge of barbecue sauce on her left cheek, and hazel eyes crinkled at the corners from smiling. She held out her free hand, her nails chipped with pale blue polish. “Clara. Started as the part-time librarian at the downtown branch last month. I still haven’t figured out where all the random coolers and lawn chairs get stashed around here.”
He hesitated for two full beats before shaking her hand, her skin softer than he expected, her grip firm. “Roland. Retired lineman. Fixes wiring for people around town when they ask.” He wanted to shut up then, go back to his catfish, pretend the spark he’d felt when their hands touched was just static from the old radio next to the food stand. But she nodded at the empty spot across from him, holding up her tray. “You mind if I sit? All the other tables are full, and I don’t feel like squeezing between the fire chief and his three barking golden retrievers.”
He couldn’t say no, not when she was smiling like that, so he gestured at the bench. She sat, her knee bumping his under the table when she shifted to set her tray down, and she didn’t pull away. For 20 minutes, they talked, mostly about the library, the old wiring in the back storage room that kept shorting out, risking the rare collection of local history books she’d spent the last month cataloging. He found himself leaning in without meaning to, listening when she talked about growing up on a horse farm outside Lexington, how she’d moved to the mountains after her divorce to get away from the noise of the city. The whole time, a little voice in his head was screaming that he was betraying Ellen, that he should make an excuse and leave, that he was too old for whatever this was. But the rest of him, the part that had been cold and quiet for eight years, was warm, awake, curious.
When they finished their food, she insisted on buying him a slice of peach pie from the dessert stand, sliding it across the table to him with a plastic fork. “Payment for saving my life, and for agreeing to come look at the library wiring tomorrow afternoon,” she said, grinning when he opened his mouth to protest that he didn’t need payment. “Don’t argue. I already asked the guy at the stand to put extra whipped cream on it. And if you finish the whole thing, I’ll even buy you a chocolate milkshake after we’re done with the wiring.”
She leaned across the table then, her thumb brushing a crumb of pie crust off his chin, the contact slow, deliberate, sending a jolt up his spine that was sharper than any shock he’d ever gotten working on a 12,000 volt line. Her thumb lingered for a second before she pulled away, wiping the crumb off on her napkin, and he didn’t look away from her eyes the whole time, the guilt in his chest melting into something lighter, something he hadn’t felt in years.
She stood up a few minutes later, slinging her canvas tote bag over her shoulder, and told him she’d meet him at the library at 2 the next day. He nodded, watching her walk across the parking lot to her beat-up green Subaru, and waved when she glanced over her shoulder to wave at him, the braid swinging down her back.
He picked up the last bite of pie, the peaches sweet and warm on his tongue, and realized the 40 pound tool belt he’d worn up hundreds of utility poles over 35 years had never felt half as heavy as the wall he’d built around himself after Ellen died. He popped the bite into his mouth, wiped his hands on his jeans, and started mentally making a list of the tools he’d need to bring to the library the next day.
