The community center’s monthly potluck was in full swing, the air thick with the smell of baked ham, macaroni and cheese, and Mrs. Henderson’s famous pecan pie. He’d claimed a spot at a round table near the window, a paper plate stacked with a little bit of everything, and a glass of iced tea sweating in his hand. At 68, these potlucks were his quiet joy—catching up with old friends from the neighborhood, listening to the jazz record someone always brought, and watching the way the afternoon light slanted through the windows, turning dust motes into gold. Then Clara had walked over, her floral print dress swishing gently around her knees, and asked if the seat next to him was taken. He’d nodded too quickly, nearly spilling his tea, and she’d laughed—soft, warm, the kind of laugh that made his chest feel light. They’d known each other since he moved into the neighborhood five years ago, both widowed, both used to the quiet. They’d gone for walks, borrowed sugar from each other, but never anything more. Until today.
They’d been talking about the weather—how the summer had been kinder than last year, how the roses in his front yard were still blooming—when Clara shifted in her chair. It was a small movement, at first, just adjusting her weight, but then she lifted one leg. Slow. Deliberate. So slow he could see the way the fabric of her dress clung to her calf, the faint outline of her ankle as she crossed it over the other. He tried not to look. He really did—stared down at his plate, at the crumbs on the tablecloth, at his iced tea—but his eyes kept drifting back. He knew she noticed. He could see the corner of her mouth twitch up in a smile, the way she took a slow sip of her lemonade, like she was savoring the moment. “You know,” she said, her voice casual, like she wasn’t doing anything at all, “I planted those marigolds you recommended last month. They’re blooming like crazy—bright orange, just like you said.” Her legs stayed crossed, and she shifted again, just a little, so her knee brushed against his under the table. Light. Brief. But enough to make his breath catch.
He set his fork down, his fingers brushing the edge of the tablecloth to steady himself. “Yeah?” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Marigolds are tough. Hard to kill. Good choice.” Clara laughed, that soft laugh again, and leaned forward slightly—enough that he could smell the vanilla in her perfume, faint but sweet. “I think I’m getting the hang of gardening,” she said, and then she crossed her legs again. Slow. So slow he could track every inch of movement: her foot lifting, her calf sliding against the other, the fabric of her dress bunching gently at her knee. This time, she didn’t look away. Her eyes locked on his, warm and dark, and she smiled—a slow, knowing smile that said she knew exactly where his gaze was. “Though I still need a little help sometimes,” she added, her voice dropping just a notch, like she was sharing a secret. “Someone who knows their way around flowers. Someone who could come over and… show me a few tricks.” Her knee brushed his again, this time lingering, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest—something he hadn’t felt in years, not since his wife was alive. He looked up at her, his own smile spreading, and nodded. “I could do that,” he said. “Anytime you want.” Clara’s smile widened, and she took another sip of her lemonade, her legs still crossed beneath the table, a silent promise hanging in the air that he was already looking forward to keeping.