Ron Jablonski, 62, spent 37 years restoring vintage neon signs for Milwaukee’s dive bars and old malt shops before selling his commercial shop four years back, still tinkering out of his detached garage for fun. His only real flaw, if you asked his 16-year-old granddaughter, was that he’d turned into a full-time hermit after his wife Linda died eight years prior, skipping every neighborhood cookout, block party, and holiday potluck like they were handing out free food poisoning. He only showed up to this first post-pandemic summer block party because the kid begged, said she needed someone to haul three coolers of lemonade to her bake sale table, and he’d never been able to say no to her.
He’s leaned against an oak tree at the edge of the crowd now, sweating through the collar of his faded work flannel even though it’s 78 degrees out, sipping a lukewarm Pabst he grabbed from the keg, avoiding eye contact with every neighbor who tries to wave him over. The air smells like grilled brats and citronella, kids screaming as they chase each other with water guns, the local cover band fumbling through a Tom Petty track from the stage set up in the middle of the street. He spots her across the crowd first, when she leans over to yank a stuck cherry popsicle out of a cooler for a sobbing toddler, her cropped linen shirt riding up just enough to show a neon cactus tattoo on her left hip, ink so bright it looks like it could glow in the dark. He recognizes her as Mara, the woman who moved into the old Henderson place six months back, runs a mobile pet grooming van out of her driveway, he’s seen her driving around with a golden retriever hanging out the passenger window more than once.
She makes her way over to the keg a minute later, tripping over a kid’s discarded bike right at his feet, and he reaches out automatically to steady her, his calloused hands wrapping around her forearm for half a second before he lets go. She laughs, a rough, warm sound, not the high, fake giggle he remembers from Linda’s book club friends, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and lavender dog shampoo, nothing like the heavy rose perfume Linda used to wear every Sunday. She notices the neon pink paint fleck stuck to the side of his wrist first, tilts her head to look at it, asks if he’s the guy who restores the old signs for the bars down on Water Street. He nods, surprised anyone in the neighborhood even knew that about him, and they fall into talking easy, no awkward small talk about the weather or HOA fees. She’s 58, widowed five years back, her husband was a long-haul trucker who died in a crash on I-94 outside of Madison, she tells him, and he feels that familiar twist in his chest, the guilt of even talking to another woman like this, like he’s cheating on Linda somehow, even though he knows she’d yell at him for being such an idiot if she was here. He keeps telling himself he should leave, go back to his quiet house, watch the Brewers game alone like he always does, but he can’t make his feet move, can’t stop staring at the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs at his terrible joke about the worst sign he ever fixed, a beat-up strip club sign that had half the letters burned out.
The band switches to a cover of *Folsom Prison Blues* half an hour later, and he freezes, that was the first song he and Linda ever danced to, at their wedding reception in his parents’ church basement, he can almost feel her hand in his, hear her laughing when he stepped on her dress. Mara notices immediately, doesn’t push him to talk about it, just taps the toe of her worn work boot against his, light, no pressure, says “I hate when songs sneak up on you like that, don’t you?” He nods, doesn’t run like he usually would when someone gets too close to that part of him, and before he can think better of it, he asks her if she wants to walk back to his garage, he just finished restoring a 1952 malt shop sign that glows pink and baby blue, he hasn’t shown anyone else yet. She says yes before he even finishes the sentence.
They walk the half block to his house slow, the noise of the block party fading behind them, crickets chirping in the grass, his hand brushing hers twice when they step over a crack in the sidewalk, neither of them saying anything about it. He fumbles with the garage door key for a second, then flips the switch when they step inside, the neon sign humming to life, casting soft pink and blue light over the workbenches stacked with old sign parts and half-empty cans of paint. She steps closer to get a better look, her shoulder pressing solid against his, warm through the flannel, and he doesn’t move away. She turns her head to look up at him, her cheeks glowing pink from the sign light, and he lifts his hand slow, brushes a stray strand of silver hair off her forehead, his thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek for a split second before he pulls back. She leans into the touch before he can move his hand away, her hand coming up to rest on his wrist, light as a feather.
