Moe Rezende, 53, has run his vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a cinder-block converted garage outside Zanesville, Ohio, for 12 years. He’d avoided every local block party, fish fry, and community fundraiser since his wife left him for a regional trucking manager seven years prior, but his next-door neighbor had begged so hard to showcase his fully restored 1972 Honda CB750 in the party’s classic vehicle line that he’d caved, planning to duck out after 20 minutes tops. He leaned against the bike’s gas tank, sipping a lukewarm Pabst, and rolled his eyes every time a stranger wandered over to ask how much he’d sell the CB for. The new county commissioner, a sleazy former used car salesman Moe had refused to vote for, was droning through a victory speech on the makeshift stage at the end of the block, and Moe was just reaching for his keys when a shadow fell over his boots.
It was Lena Voss, the commissioner’s wife. Moe had known her for 22 years, back when she was his ex-wife’s awkward, quiet college roommate who used to crash on their couch during holiday breaks. She was wearing a faded linen sundress the color of wild clover, a faint grass stain streaked across the left hem from chasing her 7-year-old niece through the park earlier that afternoon, and she smelled like coconut sunscreen and the peach cobbler she’d been handing out at the food table. She stopped so close her shoulder brushed his sun-warmed bicep when she reached for the unopened can of beer he’d set on the bike’s rear fender, and he didn’t move away. She held up the can in question, one eyebrow raised, and he nodded. She popped the tab, took a long sip, and laughed when he muttered that the commissioner’s speech was so boring he’d rather sand rust off a 1960s Triumph frame for three hours straight.
The tension hummed between them so thick he could almost taste it, sharp as the gasoline fumes he breathed in every day in his shop. He knew the rules: she was married, to a guy everyone in town was currently fawning over, she’d been off-limits for as long as he’d known her, and if any of the hundred or so people at the party noticed them standing too close, the gossip would spread faster than a grass fire in July. He tried to step back, told himself he should just get on the bike and go home to his quiet, empty house, but she leaned in a little closer when she laughed again, her hand brushing his wrist for three full seconds before she pulled back, and his brain short-circuited. She’d always been the one who noticed the little things, back when he was married: she’d compliment the custom paint job he’d done on his first bike, ask him how his day was when his ex-wife was too busy yelling about utility bills to care.
He’d written off the little sparks as just her being nice, for decades. Now she was telling him she knew her husband was cheating on her with his 26-year-old campaign manager, that she’d spent the last six months smiling for photos and shaking hands for a guy who didn’t even bother coming home most nights, that she was sick of being the perfect political wife. She asked if he still had that little cabin up by Salt Fork State Park, the one he’d built himself when he was 30 to get away from all the noise. He nodded, his throat tight, and she held out her hand for the extra helmet he always kept strapped to the back of the CB.
He hesitated for ten long seconds, glancing over at the stage where the commissioner was now pumping his fist to a bad 90s country song, no one looking their way. He tossed her the helmet. She slid it on, adjusted the strap, and climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping her arms tight around his waist, pressing her cheek to the back of his faded flannel shirt. He could feel the warmth of her through the fabric even as he pulled out onto the side road, the wind whipping past his ears, the noise of the party fading behind them.
