Manny Ruiz is 59, has run his vintage neon sign restoration shop out of East Austin for 15 years, and hasn’t attended a single block party in the last 12. He’s got a good excuse for showing up this time: his shop’s 20-year-old AC unit gave out at 2 PM, the metal workbench was too hot to touch without burning his palms, and the pop-up beer stand set up two doors down was selling cold Shiner Bock for three bucks a can. He leans against the splintered cedar fence separating his parking lot from the sidewalk, sweat beading at his hairline under his faded Astros cap, and watches kids chase each other through the crowd with rainbow popsicles dripping down their wrists. The air smells like smoked brisket, grilled corn slathered in chili lime butter, and the sweet, sharp fizz of paletas being pulled from dry ice. A mariachi band set up at the end of the block plays a slow cumbia, the trumpet notes curling through the warm September air.
He’s half considering dragging a folding chair out of his shop and just napping in the shade when she trips over a toddler’s plastic stroller, stumbles sideways, and slams right into his shoulder. Her iced lavender latte sloshes over the rim of the cup, splattering a splotch of pale purple across the front of his gray work shirt, the one with the faded neon sign logo stitched over the pocket. “Oh shit, I am so sorry,” she says, reaching out to dab at the stain with a crumpled napkin from her pocket, her knuckles brushing his forearm through the thin cotton. He can feel the cold of the cup seep through the fabric, raising goosebumps on his skin even in the 90-degree heat. He looks up, recognizes her immediately: Clara, the woman who runs the tiny community book swap in the storefront between his shop and the taco truck. He’s seen her through the window a hundred times, hauling boxes of books, sitting on the step out front reading during her lunch break, but he’s never said more than a quick wave when he catches her looking.
She’s 54, he later learns, moved to Austin seven years prior after her divorce, got the book swap space for next to nothing from the landlord who used to be her high school English teacher. She’s got a thin scar slashing across her left eyebrow from a bike crash when she was 16, chipped forest green nail polish, and wears silver hoop earrings that catch the golden hour light when she tilts her head to laugh. She says she’s had a beat-up 1970s guide to American neon signage in the back of her car for three weeks, found it in a donation bin, kept meaning to bring it by his shop but was too nervous he’d think she was weird for showing up unannounced. Manny’s first instinct is to make an excuse, to say he’s got too much work to catch up on, to thank her for the offer and head back to his sweltering shop and lock the door like he always does. But she smells like jasmine and cedar, and she’s asking him about the half-restored Route 66 diner sign he has propped against his shop window, pointing out the crack in the left neon tube that he’d spent three hours that morning trying to seal, and he can’t remember the last time anyone asked him about his work that wasn’t a customer haggling over price.
He lets her follow him back to his car to grab the book, then invites her into the shop, even though there’s scrap metal scattered across the floor and the back couch is covered in old work gloves and neon tube packaging. The AC kicked on while they were outside, cool air blowing through the vents, and the half-dozen finished signs he has hung on the wall cast soft pink, electric blue, and warm orange light across the room. She leans in to look at the tiny custom sign he’s making for a new vegan taco truck, her shoulder pressing firm against his, and he doesn’t step away. She runs a finger along the curved glass tube, asks him how he mixes the neon and argon gas to get that specific soft yellow hue, and he finds himself talking for 20 minutes straight, explaining the gas ratios, the way he bends the glass over the open flame, the little tricks he picked up from his old mentor who ran a sign shop in Corpus Christi back in the 80s.
He admits he stopped going to block parties after his ex-wife left him for a real estate agent 15 years younger than him, that he’d spent so long closing himself off he forgot what it felt like to have a conversation that didn’t revolve around invoices or delivery dates. She nods, tells him she spent the first three years after her divorce eating frozen dinners alone on her couch every night, too scared to go out and meet new people, convinced every first date would end in disaster. It’s dark by the time they finish talking, the street lights outside glowing yellow through the shop window, and she leans in slow, no sudden moves, and kisses him. He tastes the lavender from her latte on her lips, the faint sweetness of the mango paleta she’d eaten halfway through their conversation, and he kisses her back, his hand resting light on her hip, no pressure, no rush.
