Hank Colton, 58, retired high-voltage lineman with a scar slicing through his left eyebrow and a grudge he’d carried for six months against the county’s new health director, leaned against the splintered wooden pole of the VFW beer tent and stared at the foam on his third lager of the night. He’d spent the last two years bitching about COVID restrictions canceling the town’s annual summer street fair, and when Clara Bennett had finally signed off on the permit back in May, he’d still found a reason to gripe: she’d added a stupid rule about hand sanitizer stations every ten feet, like the whole town hadn’t already survived the worst of it. He’d avoided every public meeting she’d hosted, had even walked the other way when he saw her in the grocery store produce aisle last month.
The crowd pressed in around him as the first firework boomed overhead, painting the dark sky neon pink, and suddenly she was right next to him, shoulder to shoulder, her denim jacket brushing the bare skin of his forearm where his flannel was rolled up. He stiffened. She was holding a plastic cup of something amber, her short auburn hair streaked with gray at the temples, a smudge of charcoal from the grill on her left cheek. He’d never been that close to her before. He could smell coconut shampoo and a hint of bourbon under the scent of grilled brats and burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand two booths over.