Javi Mendez, 52, makes his living restoring vintage motorcycles out of a cinder block garage tucked behind his east Austin bungalow. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 1972 Triumph exhaust burn, hates small talk so much he keeps his shop closed on weekends to avoid the influx of tourist bikers asking for Instagram photos, and hasn’t gone on a date since his wife left him for a software sales exec eight years prior. His only consistent social interaction is dropping $3 on a black coffee at the corner shop every Tuesday morning, so when he shows up to find it boarded up for pipe repairs, he’s already in a sour mood when he trundles toward the pop-up farmers market half a block away.
The air smells like grilled chorizo and cut hibiscus, humid enough that the back of his flannel shirt is damp within two minutes of stepping outside. He grabs a migas taco slathered in habanero hot sauce, balances it on a flimsy paper plate, and turns too fast to avoid a kid chasing a golden retriever, slamming straight into the woman standing behind him. The taco’s edge smears a streak of orange sauce across the front of her cream linen button-down.
Javi freezes. His first instinct is to mumble an apology and bolt, pretend it never happened, but she laughs, a warm, throaty sound that cuts off his train of thought. She’s the neighbor who moved into the blue bungalow three houses down three months prior, the one he’s only ever waved at from his driveway when he’s hauling bike parts. She’s got silver hoops that jingle when she tilts her head, freckles across her nose, and her nail polish is chipped the same faded robin’s egg blue as the 1967 Harley he’s been rebuilding for a regular.
“Relax, it’s thrifted,” she says, swiping a finger through the sauce and licking it off, winking. “Worse things have ended up on my shirts. I’m Elara, by the way. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself. The whole neighborhood talks about the guy who fixes those crazy old bikes.”
They’re standing close enough that Javi can smell lavender hand cream on her wrists, hear the faint sound of a Taylor Swift song playing through the single AirPod tucked in her left ear. He grabs a handful of napkins from the taco stand, leans in to dab at the sauce on her shirt, and his knuckles brush the soft skin of her collarbone. He tenses up, expecting her to pull away, but she leans in a little instead, her gaze fixed on his face, no sign of discomfort.
Javi’s chest feels tight. He’s spent eight years telling himself he’s better off alone, that dating at his age is just a mess of unmet expectations and awkward conversations about ex-spouses and joint custody and health scares, that he doesn’t need anyone messing up the quiet routine he’s built for himself. Half of him wants to make an excuse and leave, the other half can’t stop staring at the way her lip tucks between her teeth when she glances down at the grease under his fingernails.
“Those are motorcycle grease stains, right?” she asks, nodding at his hands. “My dad had a 1978 Honda CB750 he drove cross country on in the 80s. I’ve been bugging everyone I know to teach me how to ride for months, no luck. All the guys at the bike shops treat me like I’m a kid asking to play with a toy.”
Javi blinks. The CB750 he’s been restoring for himself for the last two years is propped up on a stand in his shop right now, finished last week, polished until the gas tank glows like burnished amber. “I’ve got that exact bike in my garage,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “Finished it a few days ago. If you want to see it, I live three houses down.”
She grins, bright and unselfconscious, and says yes.
The walk back to his shop is quiet, no forced small talk, just the sound of crickets chirping in the overgrown grass between the sidewalks and the distant hum of traffic on I-35. He yanks the garage door up when they get there, and the faint sound of Willie Nelson’s *Stardust* album he left playing that morning drifts out, the scent of lacquer and motor oil thick in the air. He leads her over to the CB750, nods at the custom pinstriping he hand-painted along the tank, and when she reaches out to run her fingers over the cool metal, her hand brushes his.
He’s already bracing himself for the awkward shift, the excuse that she has to go, but she leans in first, kissing him slow, tasting like iced mint tea and the peach empanada she’d been holding when he bumped into her. Her hand rests on his chest, right over the faded Iron Maiden patch on his flannel, and he can feel her smile against his mouth when he kisses her back, tentative at first, then surer, like he’s remembering how to do something he forgot he was good at.
They pull apart a minute later, both breathing a little faster, and she laughs, swiping a smudge of motor oil off his cheek with her thumb. “I’ve been walking my dog past your shop twice a day for the last month hoping you’d be outside,” she admits. “You always looked so focused, I didn’t want to bug you.”
Javi snorts, shaking his head, surprised at how easy the grin comes, the kind of smile he hasn’t felt settle on his face in years. He walks over to the mini fridge tucked under his workbench, pulls out two cold Shiner Bocks, pops the caps off on the edge of a wrench, and hands one to her. She takes it, her fingers curling around the cold glass, and leans against the workbench next to him, nodding at the bike.
“First lesson’s next Saturday?” she asks, raising the beer to her lips.
Javi nods, taking a long sip, watching the sunlight filter through the garage’s cracked window, gilding the edge of her hair. He can’t remember the last time he looked forward to a weekend.
