Elias Thorne pushed through the dented screen door of the Auglaize County VFW post just after 6 PM, the smell of fried catfish and cigarette smoke hitting him before he crossed the threshold. He was 62, four years retired from the rural electric co-op where he’d climbed utility poles for 38 years, his left forearm crisscrossed with a pale four-inch scar from a 2012 ice storm when a downed line arced inches from his skin. He wore the same faded red flannel he wore every Friday, scuffed steel-toe boots he’d never bothered to replace after retiring, a worn leather sheath on his belt holding three vintage Case pocket knives he’d collected over the last two decades. He slid into his usual booth by the front window, the vinyl cracked in the same spot under his thigh as it had been for the last six years, and nodded at the guy running the fry station behind the bar.
The server who usually brought his order wasn’t there. Instead, a woman he’d never seen before walked over, a crumpled name tag reading CLARA pinned lopsided to her gingham button-down, a smudge of flour on her left wrist from the bake sale the post had run earlier that day. She was 54, he guessed, streaks of silver in her dark brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, chipped pale blue nail polish on her fingers where she gripped a pen. She leaned in to hear his order over the jukebox blaring Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues*, her shoulder brushing his upper arm for half a second, and he caught the scent of lavender hand lotion mixed with fried cornmeal, soft enough that it didn’t clash with the smoky air of the post. “Extra tartar, right?” she said, grinning, when he finished his order, and he blinked, confused. “Marge told me the guy in the window booth never skips the extra tartar. Said the last time someone forgot it, he threatened to bring his own next week.”
He laughed, a rough, rusty sound he didn’t make much these days. He’d avoided casual conversation with anyone who wasn’t his kids or grandkids for years, convinced that moving on from his wife Diane’s death 8 years prior was some kind of betrayal. He’d turned down three setups from his sister in the last year alone, told her he’d rather spend his weekends fishing by the reservoir than making awkward small talk over steak dinners. But Clara didn’t feel awkward. She set his plate down a minute later, the catfish crispy, hushpuppies still steaming, and paused to lean against the edge of the booth when he asked where she’d moved from. Chicago, she said, after her divorce was finalized, took the part-time librarian job at the tiny town branch because she was sick of paying $20 for coffee and stepping over unhoused people on the L. She was sorting through the local history archives right now, she said, had come across a stack of old co-op newsletters from the 2000s, saw his name in a 2007 issue for rescuing a tabby cat stuck on top of a transformer during a thunderstorm.
He felt his face heat up. No one had mentioned that in 17 years. He’d gotten written up for it, risked getting shocked, had lied to Diane when he got home that night and said he’d just stopped to help a kid get his kite out of a tree. He kept the cat, named her Sparky, she’d lived 12 years, died three months before Diane did. He found himself talking for 20 minutes straight, showing her the scar on his arm, pulling one of his pocket knives out of the sheath to show her the hand-carved bone handle, explaining how he’d traded a week of side work fixing a farmer’s fence for it in 2019. She leaned in the whole time, elbows on the booth, eyes locked on his, no polite nods, no checking her phone, just asking questions about the knives, about the old lineman stories, about the best spots to fish for bluegill at the reservoir.
By the time her shift ended, the sun was down, the VFW parking lot half dark, a couple of the overhead lights busted out from a Fourth of July fireworks mishap the month prior. He offered to walk her to her car before he even thought about it, then immediately felt a twist of guilt in his gut, like Diane was watching from somewhere, shaking her head. He told himself he was just being polite, that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid, but he couldn’t stop looking at the way her braid fell over her shoulder when she laughed, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear when she was listening, the calluses on her fingertips from turning book pages and tending to the vegetable garden she’d planted in her new backyard.
She dropped her keys when they reached her beat-up Subaru Outback, a sticker of a golden retriever wearing a librarian’s glasses on the back window. They both bent to grab them at the same time, their hands brushing, her palm warm and rough against his, and he didn’t pull away. He held her hand for three full seconds, his throat tight, before he forced himself to let go. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, quiet, staring at the scuff marks on his boots. “My wife died eight years ago. I haven’t so much as bought a woman a cup of coffee since then. Feels like I’m cheating.”
Clara picked up the keys, wiped a fleck of dirt off the keychain, and reached out to touch the scar on his forearm, light, like she was handling something fragile. “Grief doesn’t come with a rule book,” she said. “My ex-husband died three years before our divorce was final. I spent two years feeling guilty for even going out to dinner with a friend. Turns out the people who love you don’t want you spending the rest of your life alone.” She leaned in, pressed a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, and he tasted root beer and mint on her breath when she pulled back. “I’m at the library tomorrow from 10 to 2,” she said, opening the driver’s side door. “Bring those pocket knives. I’ve got a stack of those old co-op newsletters you can look through, if you want. And I make a mean peach pie.”
He nodded, said he’d be there, stood in the parking lot watching her taillights fade down the road until they were gone. He reached up to touch the spot on his cheek where she’d kissed him, the skin still warm, the twist of guilt in his gut softer now, almost gone. He pulled the pocket knife with the bone handle out of his sheath, flipped it open and closed twice, the familiar weight of it in his hand grounding him, and turned to walk to his own truck, his step lighter than it had been in eight years.
