Manny Ruiz, 62, retired air traffic controller who now runs a tiny vintage drone repair shop out of his detached garage in central Florida, had spent the first 45 minutes of the county fire department’s annual fish fry plotting his escape. He’d been dragged there by his 16-year-old next door neighbor Javi, who’d mowed his lawn twice when his arthritic knee flared up last month, and who was selling raffle tickets for a 17-foot bass boat as his senior project fundraiser. Manny was leaning against a gnarled loblolly pine at the edge of the field, sweat beading under the brim of his faded 2018 Daytona 500 cap, boots sticking a little to the beer-stained, grassy mud underfoot. His styrofoam cup of sweet tea was so soaked through with condensation the napkin wrapped around it had turned to pulp, and the half-eaten hushpuppy in his other hand was cold, crumbs sticking to the calluses on his palm. He’d already told Javi he’d buy 20 tickets, that was the favor paid, he was clear to leave as soon as he finished the last sip of tea.
The first thing he noticed was the laugh. Loud, unapologetic, a little rough around the edges, cutting through the hum of cornhole boards clacking, old guys arguing about college football, the fryer hissing 50 feet away. He looked up, and his stomach dropped. It was her. Clara Voss, the new county librarian he’d screamed at three separate times on the phone two weeks prior, over $1.80 in late fees for a beekeeping book his late wife Elaina had checked out six months before she died. He’d called her a pencil-pushing extortionist, accused the library of scamming senior citizens, hung up on her mid-sentence every time. She was wearing a faded yellow floral sundress that hit mid-calf, scuffed brown cowboy boots, a thin silver necklace with a tiny bee charm on it, and he could see a tattoo of an open book curling around her left wrist as she lifted a paper plate of fried catfish to take a bite. She met his eyes across the crowd, and grinned.
He froze, half hoping she’d look away, half considering diving behind the pine tree. She didn’t. She said something to the fire chief she’d been talking to, wiped her hand on the side of her dress, and walked straight over. A group of teen boys hauling a cooler of seltzer cut between them at the last second, so she stepped closer to avoid being bumped, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep for half a second. He could smell coconut shampoo and the faint, briny tang of fried catfish on her, and his throat went dry. She stopped less than two feet away, close enough he could see the faint flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the tiny laugh lines fanning out at the corners. “Manny Ruiz, right? The guy who thinks the library runs a racket for loose change?”
He stammered out an apology so fast he tripped over his own words, explained the book was his wife’s, that he’d been an asshole, that he’d drop the cash off at the library first thing Monday. She waved it off, leaning against the pine tree next to him, her arm pressed light against his. “I get it. Half the county yells at me over late fees. Last week a guy threatened to bring his pet alligator to the front desk because we wouldn’t waive a fee for his duck hunting guide.” He laughed, a real one, the kind he hadn’t let out more than a handful of times since Elaina died four years prior.
They talked for an hour, not moving from that spot by the tree. He found out she was a widow too, her husband had been a lineman hit by lightning while repairing a power line after a hurricane three years prior. She collected vintage drone parts in her spare time, had a half-restored 2012 DJI Phantom sitting on her dining room table that she couldn’t get to power on. When he leaned over to pull up photos of his shop on his phone, his hand brushed hers where it rested on the tree bark between them, and a sharp, warm jolt shot up his arm, the kind of spark he’d assumed he’d never feel again. She didn’t pull away. She said she had the beekeeping book in her car, no late fees, no hassle, if she could bring it by his shop tomorrow and he’d take a look at her busted drone. He agreed before she finished the sentence.
The raffle announcement blared over the loudspeaker a few minutes later, but Manny didn’t even pay attention. He didn’t win the bass boat, didn’t care. Clara said she had to head out, her senior rescue pit bull was home alone with a chewed up kong that wouldn’t last much longer. She squeezed his forearm before she turned to walk to her beat up blue Subaru, her fingers lingering just long enough to make the tips of his ears burn. He waved when she honked as she pulled out of the grassy lot, standing there long after her taillights disappeared down the two-lane road. He lifted the cold, forgotten catfish from his plate and took a bite, the salty, crispy crust hitting his tongue just right.
