That damn commercial. It kept airing in between game shows, its sentimentality breaking up the raucous flow of applause and flashing lights and cartoonish contestants. A little girl calling her grandmother on an iPhone and telling her about a sunflower she drew at school while the grandmother looked out the window at the lone sunflower in her yard and smiled. After about its 50th airing, Lottie powered on her father’s old desktop computer and ordered an iPhone on Amazon.

She hadn’t made a call with it yet, but she had managed to download Facebook. She filled out a few of the information fields — full name (Loretta “Lottie” Finster), occupation (retired financial advisor), relationship status (single), and education (Pine Valley High School, Dartmouth). The app suggested some friends. Their faces were displayed in small squares. Lottie fetched her reading glasses. It was almost like looking at her yearbook, but the faces had warped with time. How did this little device figure out that she, once, knew these people?

She hit “add friend” under the names of a dozen or so people to start. Some of the profiles were empty; Lottie wondered if their owners were dead. Other pages were laden with pictures of children, grandchildren, cats in sweaters under the Christmas tree, the beach, needlepoints with sassy sayings. Lottie considered her own photos. She had tested her new phone’s camera on her garden outside, the spinach omelet she made for breakfast on Monday, but she wasn’t sure if such things belonged on her personal profile.

She explored the caverns of Facebook further. Videos — mostly young people talking directly into the camera. Groups? Something about the moms of Pine Valley sharing information. She wasn’t a mom, but she clicked “join” anyway. Events. Little calendar icons informed her of a band playing at the fancy restaurant two blocks away, a farmers’ market in the next town over. A 50-year reunion for her high school! She tapped too enthusiastically and spent a few minutes figuring out how to return to Facebook from her phone’s home screen.

“Sean McAvoy, the event organizer, has sent you a message,” a notification read. Lottie hastened to click on the little red envelope.

“Hello, Lottie! It’s so great to hear from you. I hope you’re doing well. I see you’ve RSVP’d to the reunion and I know we’ll all be delighted to see you! For capacity purposes, can I ask if you plan to bring a plus-one? Best, Sean.”

It took Lottie ten minutes to tap out her reply: “Hello, Sean! I quite look forward to the reunion. Just me, going stag! Lottie xo.”

She shut the phone off and sat back on the couch with it pressed to her chest like a love letter. Thoughts surfaced and gasped for air: What will I wear? I should get a haircut. How much are haircuts these days? Do people still say “going stag”? Was the “xo” too much?

The yearbook lived on her coffee table. She picked it up and it fell open easily, its spine cracking like a well-worn joint. Sean McAvoy’s black-and-white senior photo was on page 34. He had freckles and braces and a swoop of black hair. His achievements were listed next to his photo: senior class president, 4H club coordinator, varsity lacrosse team co-captain. His yearbook quote was slightly obscured by the hearts Lottie had drawn around the photo 50 years ago. The ink still looked fresh.

The reunion was two weeks from Saturday. How did one fill their time for two weeks? She could poke around on the smartphone some more, or watch a new game show, or tend to the garden, but she thought about the photos of beach vacations on Facebook and suddenly these things seemed very boring.

It was strange how her life had become a car crash: accelerating, swerving, running red lights to reach a destination that got farther away the faster she tried to reach it, never slowing down for a detour or to take the scenic back roads. Then, a blink of the eye, and here she was on the other side, intact but surveying the wreckage of all that haste and wondering if it had been worth it in the end.

Lottie’s house was positioned at the end of a dead-end street, formidable and towering over the neighboring houses like the queen on a chessboard. It had two floors and a finished basement, and her rotation of landscapers and house cleaners kept it all in pristine shape. But she had no artwork on the walls, no animal scurrying around and warming her up in the dead of night. Bella, the next-door neighbor, brought over flowers last year after hearing Lottie’s father had passed. Lottie gave her the tour as it seemed like the neighborly thing to do, and she felt self-conscious, seeing the rooms through Bella’s eyes: beige carpet, mahogany dining table, navy couch, all these rectangles!

“This was my father’s room,” Lottie announced when they reached the basement. The hospital bed was still set up on the left wall, its linens stripped, and the black leather armchair and blank television loomed in the shadows of the other walls. The white tiles seemed facetiously clean, as if to convince its visitors that this was not a place that had seen death. Next to her, Lottie could feel Bella give a faint shiver. Lottie wanted to reassure her, tell her that actually, her father preferred a room furnished this way. Utilitarian, no frivolities. He hadn’t even wanted to pay for his own medical expenses in the end.

“How long have you lived here again?” Bella asked as they went back upstairs.

“Seven or eight years, perhaps,” Lottie said.

Bella stumbled through an apology that she had never come over to meet Lottie before, mom brain, her unobservant nature, weren’t interactions so digital and impersonal these days? Lottie wasn’t sure whether to mimic Bella’s breezy tone or to turn this into the kind of in-depth conversation that segued into friendship, so she simply smiled and nodded, and though Bella vehemently swore she’d come over again sometime for coffee, she hadn’t. Lottie kept the flowers she brought over until they died, and then she pressed the dry petals in a book.

Occasionally, she’d gaze out the kitchen window, observing the sagas of Bella’s driveway. The three young boys clamoring in and out of the minivan with sports equipment, playing with the dog in the front yard, Bella either yelling at them or taking photos of them. Lottie tried to envision herself in that place: a messy and noisy home, mac and cheese instead of salmon filets for dinner. Lots of people, she had learned, had been handed certain guidance like an heirloom: This is what you strive for. Chaos, color, family.

Lottie had inherited different advice. Life had always been something to manipulate, not to experience. One of her fondest memories as a child had been running a lemonade stand in her driveway with her next door neighbor, Jeffrey. Passing drivers handed them a dime and praised the juice and asked them about their summer plans. Lottie and Jeffrey drank a few too many glasses themselves and ran around the front yard in a sugar rush. Then Lottie’s father came outside, evaluated their work, and told them to raise the price to 50 cents so they could make a profit.

“What’s profit?” Jeffrey asked after Lottie’s dad went back inside.

“It’s like when you make more money than you spend,” Lottie said.

Jeffrey yawned. “Bor-ring.” He was the same age as Lottie but nickels and dimes and quarters all looked the same to him.

He left ten minutes later to fly kites with his brother. Lottie manned the station herself for the rest of the day. Her dad let her buy a piece of candy with her profits and poured the rest of the coins in a piggy bank. She could buy her own car, though she hardly took it anywhere, by the time she turned 16. It seemed simple. Being smart let her get what she wanted. But now she was in her late 60s, and though her want stretched further than a piece of bubble gum, it felt just as sticky and substanceless. She wanted something big, but she didn’t know what.

The night of the reunion, Lottie adjusted the collar of her shift dress and took a deep breath before pushing open the doors of the bar. It was a funny place Sean had chosen: a postage stamp of a building right off the side of the highway, soundtracked by clattering billiards balls and a group of bearded men shouting at a television in the corner. She was half an hour early. Though her only experience drinking was the occasional glass of wine at Thanksgiving, she ordered a beer. She knew alcohol could either squelch your nerves or affect your judgment and she wasn’t sure which option was preferable at the moment.

“I bet I can guess your star sign,” one of the bearded men said, collapsing onto the stool next to her.

“Excuse me?”

“What’s it called…acquiesce? Aqua-something…”

“I’m sorry?”

“Aquarium!” the man said, snapping triumphantly.

“Aquarius, you idiot,” the bartender said, passing the man a beer. To Lottie, he said, “He bothering you?”

“I’m…I’m not sure,” Lottie said.

The bearded man barked a laugh. “This is the most success I’ve had all month.”

The bartender cocked an eyebrow and continued pouring drinks.

The bearded man pelted questions at Lottie: What’s your name, sweetheart? You from around here? Have you ever seen a pet toad up close? She answered politely, but struggled to place his motivation. Was he genuinely interested in her? Why would he continue speaking to her if he weren’t?

“So, what do you think?” the man slurred. “You wanna dance?”

“Oh!” Lottie drew back and a splash of beer dripped onto her wrist. “No, I don’t dance, thank you.”

“Oh-for-three, Farley,” the bartender laughed. The man gave them both the finger and walked back to his group of friends.

“What was that all about?” Lottie wondered.

The bartender squinted. “You meeting someone here or something?”

Lottie sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “I am here for my class reunion, actually.”

“Oh,” the bartender said, rolling his eyes. “That guy. He’s over there.” He pointed to a dartboard on the opposite side of the bar. Sean! Lottie saw all at once the boy from the yearbook photo and the man in his Facebook photo: slightly hollowed cheeks but (thankfully) a full head of hair, the dreams of her past and the hopes for her future stuffed into a plaid button-down shirt.

She tapped Sean on the shoulder. He jumped, then tilted his head and grinned. “Lottie, right?”

“Yes! Hi!” she shrieked. He put the darts away and they shook hands.

“You’re early!” he said. “Would you like a drink?”

He bought them two beers and they settled into a booth, clinking the necks of their bottles together.

“So,” Sean said, leaning back. “Lottie Finster. School treasurer extraordinaire. I remember during student council meetings you wouldn’t even let me touch the fundraising envelopes!”

Lottie wondered if he too had memorized the yearbook. “I’m surprised you remember me,” she said, blushing.

“Of course I do! Gosh, I remember everything. Everyone. I know birthdays of people I’ve only met once. I’m a freak of nature, though I guess the more polite term is ‘photographic memory,’” Sean laughed.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Drove my ex-wife crazy when I could recall every detail of an argument. But, yes, I do remember you. There was one time during senior year when you were sitting in the hallway before homeroom, reviewing the physics homework, and I asked if we could compare answers.”

“Ah! I think I do remember that.”

“Well, I might as well confess now…I hadn’t done the homework and was just copying the answers off you.” Sean made an exaggerated bow. “Forgive me!”

“I know you were,” Lottie winked. Her eyelashes stuck together.

Sean glanced down at his phone, which had just lit up. “Ha! It’s Pat Greene. You remember at the prom, when he streaked across the dance floor and got tackled by three of the teachers?” Sean said, smiling and shaking his head. “He just said he’ll be here tonight.”

“Well, actually, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t allowed to go. Plus, I had to work that night,” Lottie shrugged.

Sean raised his eyebrows. “Oh — sorry. That’s a shame. I mean — I wish you’d have seen it. It was a riot. You should ask him all about it when you see him.”

They continued chatting; after high school, Sean went to college in California and became a marketing analyst. He had retired last year and formed a sailing club with some of his buddies. He had been married, then divorced, but had no children.

“Don’t look so surprised!” he chuckled.

“Well, I — I would have just thought —” Lottie stammered.

Sean shrugged and took a sip from his beer. “I thought maybe I would have too. But my experience being married really scared me away from it, I guess.”

“Do you regret it?”

A crease appeared between his brows. He tapped the neck of the bottle against his lips. “It’s hard to tell, honestly. How can you regret something when you can never know the alternative?”

Lottie nodded. She took a sip, an inhale. She opened her mouth to ask the question she had wanted to ask since that day in the hallway when he had copied her chemistry — it was chemistry, not physics — homework. “Would you like —”

Something over her shoulder had caught Sean’s eye. He waved. “Bert! Pat! Please excuse me, Lottie, I have to play the part of good host and make the rounds.”

He swept away and his sudden absence left Lottie feeling like a star. She was glowing, but alone, still so distant from the sun. She remained in the booth in case Sean decided to come back, but more people were filtering in the door now, a queue of cheerleaders and marching-band members and French exchange students, but with jowled faces and gray hair and dressed in modest linen, most with a partner in tow, shaking hands and clinking drinks with Sean. She ordered another beer. It would have to come out of her grocery budget. But, wait — she didn’t need budgets anymore. She hadn’t for a long time. She had it all. Well, almost. She could unbuckle her seatbelt. Fly through the windshield! Gosh, beer was strong.

A classic rock song thrashed through the speakers. Lottie watched groups of people take to the floor and swivel their hips, swing their arms, kiss each other and laugh, but their outlines blurred. It was like fast-forwarding through a video, the scene changing before she could really take notice of it, could even figure out if it was real. The lights dimmed and the beer felt thick in her throat. She stood up and started dancing. Her legs jerked, her chin jutted, her body twisted and rolled to the beat. The drums and the guitar and the vocals screamed in her ear, told her to keep going. Her classmates faded away and the bartender and his friends were gone and soon even Sean was no longer in sight. The minutes of the night pulsed past her and she shut her eyes and she chose to let the music and the heat and the drinks carry her away.

– Caroline Smith

Author’s Note: In writing “Lottie’s First Dance,” I wanted to explore the idea of connection and what it means to different people.