Manny Ruiz, 53, vintage neon sign restorer, has avoided the east Austin farmers market for three straight years. The last time he went, a former neighbor cornered him for 20 minutes grilling him about why he still hadn’t started dating after his ex-wife moved to Portland. He only caved this Saturday because his favorite tamale vendor, a guy named Chuy who usually parks outside his shop, texted he’d be set up near the honey booth all morning. He wore his faded navy work shirt crusted with neon transformer dust, kept his head down, planned to be in and out in five minutes flat.
He cut between a table of hand-tooled leather belts and a kid selling lemonade for a dollar a cup, already reaching for his wallet when his boot caught on a loose concrete slab. He stumbled, his elbow swiping a glass jar of peach habanero jam off the adjacent table. He lunged to catch it, his palm slapping against the cool glass at the same time as another hand, smaller, with chipped mint-green nail polish and a thick callus on the index finger. The jar teetered for half a second before they both righted it, their forearms pressed together from wrist to elbow for three full, warm heartbeats.
He looked up. The woman behind the table was wearing a faded “Austin Public Library” hoodie, dented silver hoop earrings, and a tiny diamond nose ring glinting in the harsh May sun. She smelled like vanilla and cedar, the kind of soft, lived-in scent that sticks to your clothes long after you leave an old bookstore. The handwritten sign taped to the front of her table said JAMS FOR JUVENILE BOOKS: ALL PROCEEDS GO TO SUMMER READING PROGRAM. He recognized her now—she’d started at the branch down the street six months prior, he’d dropped off a box of tattered 70s sci-fi paperbacks he’d found in the attic of a closed diner he was restoring a sign for, and she’d smiled at him then too, but he’d bolted before he could say anything other than “here.”
He stammered out an apology, fumbling for his wallet to pay for the jar even though it wasn’t cracked or leaking. She waved him off, leaning across the table, and the neck of her hoodie slipped a little, showing a tiny tattoo of a book with a neon lightning bolt coming out of the spine on her collarbone. He stared for half a second before yanking his gaze back up to her face, and she laughed, low and warm, like she knew exactly what he was looking at and didn’t mind. “You’re Manny, right? The neon guy. I’ve seen your beat-up pickup parked down by the taco place. You restored that awesome 1950s BBQ sign for the joint on 6th, right? The one that flashes PORK RIBS every three seconds?” He blinked, surprised anyone paid that much attention to his work, especially the new librarian. He’d spent so long flying under the neighborhood radar he’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen as more than the quiet guy who fixes signs.
The familiar, sharp conflict hit him square in the chest. Half of him wanted to mumble a confirmation, grab his tamales, and run back to his quiet shop where the only thing he had to talk to was half-assembled transformers and stacks of colored glass tubing. The other half wanted to stay, wanted to ask her why she picked peach habanero instead of plain strawberry, wanted to tell her about the neon library sign he’d just picked up to restore for the new branch opening in the fall, wanted to make her laugh again. He hated how out of practice he was, hated that his hands were still sweating from brushing against hers, hated that he’d spent 8 years convincing himself he was better off alone just so he wouldn’t have to feel this jittery, this off-kilter, like he was a kid again asking his first date to prom.
He surprised himself by staying. He asked her about the summer reading program, listened while she ranted about how the city cut their craft budget by 40% this year, made a dumb joke about how neon signs get hot enough to melt jam if you hold them too close. She laughed so hard she snort-laughed a little, and that was the push he needed. He leaned across the table, his knee brushing hers through the slats of the folding table, and said “I’m restoring a 1960s neon library sign for the new branch right now. It’s got that old cursive lettering, the kind that glows soft pink when you turn it on. If you bring a couple of those tamales Chuy’s selling by my shop around 7 tonight, I’ll show you how it works. I baked cornbread last night, we can crack open that peach habanero jar and eat it on top.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She grabbed a scrap of the jam jar label off the table, held out her hand, and he pulled the neon pink Sharpie he always kept in his shirt pocket out and handed it to her. She scribbled her number on the paper, slid it across the table, and her cold fingers, chilled from handling the ice buckets under the table, brushed his again when she passed it over. “Don’t be late,” she said, grinning, and he nodded, tucking the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket right next to the Sharpie, where it would be safe. He grabbed his tamales from Chuy ten minutes later, his chest lighter than it had been in 8 years, and didn’t even stop to avoid the former neighbor who waved at him from across the market. He pulled into his shop parking lot 20 minutes later, swept the glass dust off the folding chair by his workbench, warmed the cornbread in his tiny toaster oven, and set the unopened jar of peach habanero jam right next to the glowing half-restored library sign.
He heard a car pull into the driveway at 6:58, looked up through the dusty garage window, and saw her leaning against her Honda Civic holding a paper bag of tamales and a six pack of cold peach iced tea. He wipes his dusty hands on his work jeans and steps forward to hold the door open for her.
