Manny Ruiz is 53, spent 27 years as a power lineman for western Ohio’s rural electric co-op before a falling branch shattered his left knee three years back, forced him into early retirement he never asked for. He’s stubborn to a fault, still refuses to use the cane his physical therapist recommended even when his knee throbs so bad he has to stop mid-step on his way to the mailbox, still won’t ask a neighbor for help hauling parts for the 1978 Ford F-150 he’s been restoring in his garage since his wife Elaina died two years prior from stage 3 breast cancer. Friday nights are non-negotiable: he drives the 12 minutes into town to the VFW post, grabs a plate of catfish and hushpuppies slathered in tartar sauce, a 16-ounce draft of the local lager, and parks himself at the scuffed Formica corner table where he can watch the Ohio State game without being bothered by the younger guys shooting pool by the door.
The first quarter’s halfway over when the door swings open, cold October air curling in with the smell of fallen maple leaves, and he spots her. Lila Marlow, 38, the new part-time librarian he’d run into three days prior when he’d gone to the main branch digging up a vintage repair manual for his truck. He’d been stretching as far as he could to reach the top shelf of the auto section, knee screaming, when she’d come up beside him, light on her feet, and grabbed it without even huffing. They’d chatted for 10 minutes, he’d mentioned Elaina, and she’d laughed, said she was Elaina’s second cousin, used to spend weekends at their house when she was a teen, remembered Manny fixing her busted BMX bike every summer. He’d left the library redder than he’d been in years, had tried to talk himself out of thinking about the way her dimples showed when she smiled, the soft curl of her dark hair falling over her shoulder.
She sees him immediately, waves, says something to the veteran’s wife she walked in with, and heads straight for his table before he can pretend he didn’t see her. “Mind if I sit for a minute?” she asks, already sliding into the booth across from him, her forest green cashmere sweater brushing the edge of his plate when she leans forward to set her glass of white wine on the table. He wants to say no, wants to tell her small town gossip travels faster than the line crews could get to a downed power line after a storm, that people will talk if they see the widowed old lineman hanging out with a woman 15 years his junior who’s loosely related to his dead wife. But he nods instead, mumbles something about the Buckeyes’ offensive line looking like garbage this season, and she snorts, loud and unapologetic, says she’s been dating a guy who went to Michigan for the last six months and hates every second of football season because of it.
The hum of the bar wraps around them, the clink of beer mugs, the crackle of the fryer in the back, the occasional cheer when a Buckeye makes a decent play. They talk about the truck first, she says she dug up a second manual the next day, one with full wiring diagrams for the 1978 model that he’d been searching for for six months, says she can drop it off at his place tomorrow if he wants. His gut twists immediately, half want, half shame. He tells himself it’s wrong, that Elaina would hate this, that the guys at the co-op will rib him so bad he’ll never show up to the annual Christmas party again. But then she leans in, elbows on the table, and her knee brushes his under the booth, soft fabric of her leggings against the rough denim of his work jeans, and he forgets what he was about to say. Her perfume is lavender, faint, mixes with the smell of fried fish and vinegar on the table, and her eyes are dark, hold his gaze longer than a casual friend would, no embarrassment, no hesitation.
She tells him a story he’s never heard before, about how Elaina snuck her into a Willie Nelson concert when she was 17, how they’d gotten lost on the way home and had to call Manny to come pick them up at 2 in the morning, how Elaina had made her swear never to tell Manny they’d snuck a flask of tequila into the show. He laughs, real laugh, the kind that makes his sides hurt, that he hasn’t let out since Elaina’s funeral. His hand is resting on the edge of the table, calluses thick from 27 years of gripping utility pliers and wire cutters, and she reaches for a napkin, her fingers brushing his for half a second, warm, soft, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. He admits he’s been lonely, admits he’s been scared to even talk to another woman because it feels like he’s cheating on the life he and Elaina built. She nods, doesn’t push, says Elaina used to tell her all the time that she wanted Manny to be happy even if she wasn’t around, that he spent too much time taking care of everyone else and never took care of himself.
The game cuts to halftime, the crowd around them gets louder, a group of guys by the pool table start yelling about a bet. She stands up, slings her canvas tote over her shoulder, says she should get back to her friend, but she’ll be at his place at 10 tomorrow with the manual, and she’ll even bring coffee, black, like she remembers he drinks it. He nods, can’t think of anything to say, so he just says thanks, and she grins, squeezes his hand quick before she turns to walk away. He watches her cross the room, taps his boot against the leg of the table, the ache in his knee barely noticeable for the first time all night. One of the old retired sergeants who sits at the bar every Friday winks at him, raises his beer mug in a toast, and Manny just raises his own mug back, doesn’t even care if the guy’s going to spread the word all over town by tomorrow morning. He takes a bite of his last hushpuppy, crispy on the outside, soft and salty on the inside, and pulls his phone out of his pocket to set an alarm for 9:30 am, just to make sure he’s up in time to clear the junk off the kitchen table before she gets there.