Ray Ruiz is 62, retired border patrol K9 handler, spends most of his days training search and rescue pups out of the cinder block shop behind his adobe in southern Arizona, 20 minutes outside Tucson. He’s got a scar slashing across his left eyebrow from a run-in with a drug mule’s pit bull back in 2017, a habit of chewing on the end of his work gloves when he’s thinking, and a hard rule he hasn’t broken since his wife packed her bags and left for Phoenix with a real estate agent half his age: no unnecessary small talk with anyone who lives within a 10 mile radius. Gossip in these parts spreads faster than wildfire in June, and he’s got no interest in being the subject of the ladies’ coffee klatch chatter.
He’s sitting in his usual booth at El Sol, the only dive bar within 15 minutes that serves cold Modelo on tap and doesn’t play pop country loud enough to rattle his fillings, when the monsoon hits. The sky turns black as pitch at 7 p.m., thunder rattles the window panes, rain slams against the tin roof so hard you can barely hear the jukebox. He’s on his second beer, considering waiting it out in the parking lot if he has to, when the door flies open and Clara Marquez walks in, soaking wet, hair stuck to the back of her neck, holding a stack of used books wrapped in a plastic trash bag. He recognizes her immediately: she moved into the old adobe a mile down his road three weeks prior, runs a mobile book service for homebound seniors in the area, has waved at him every single time she’s driven past his property while he’s out running dogs. He’s waved back exactly zero times, too focused on not giving her the wrong idea.
All the other booths and bar stools are packed, regulars all ducking in to wait out the storm, so she pauses next to his table, holds up the books like a peace offering, and nods at the empty bench across from him. He almost says no. Almost. But she’s got a smudge of blue ink on her left wrist, her linen shirt is unbuttoned one notch too low, and he can smell lavender soap and rain on her even from three feet away, so he grunts and slides his beer out of the way to make space. She slides in, sets the books on the table, and her knee brushes his under the table by accident. She doesn’t yank it away immediately, just gives him a small, lopsided smile, and he feels his ears get hot, something he hasn’t experienced since he was a teenager sneaking into the drive-in with his high school girlfriend.
They talk first about the storm, then about the books she’s dropping off to a 92 year old widow down the road, then about his dogs. She mentions her 10 year old golden retriever, Mabel, who’s so scared of thunder she hides under the bed for hours during monsoon season, and she’s tried everything: calming chews, thunder shirts, white noise, nothing works. He finds himself leaning in across the table, talking about the desensitization tricks he used on skittish K9s back on the force, offering to come over the next morning, no charge, just to walk her through some exercises. He’s halfway through the offer before he realizes he’s breaking his own rule, the one he’s held onto for 8 years, the one that’s kept him from having to feel anything other than mild irritation or quiet satisfaction for almost a decade. He almost takes it back, but she’s looking at him like he just handed her a winning lottery ticket, her hazel eyes bright, her hand resting on the table 6 inches from his, and he can’t bring himself to say he was joking.
The rain slows to a soft drizzle 20 minutes later, thunder moving east, the sky turning pale pink at the edges as the sun starts to set. She stands to leave, slings her canvas bag over her shoulder, and when she reaches across the table to grab her stack of books, her forearm brushes his, her fingers lingering on his wrist for half a second, warm and calloused from turning book pages and hauling crates of paperbacks around. “I’ll leave the porch light on for you,” she says, her voice low enough that only he can hear it, and he nods, too flustered to say anything back, watches her walk out the door, rain glistening on her jeans, her boots squelching in the mud puddle outside the entrance.
He finishes his beer, pays the tab, drops a five dollar tip in the jar by the register, and walks out to his beat up 2018 Ford F-150, the air still thick with the smell of creosote and rain. Her little hatchback passes him as he’s unlocking his door, she honks once, holds her hand up out the window to wave, and this time, he lifts his own hand, waves right back. He sits in the driver’s seat for a full minute after she’s gone, the window rolled down, cool air hitting his face, and he realizes he’s not dreading waking up early the next morning, for the first time in longer than he can remember. He turns the key in the ignition, pulls out of the parking lot, and heads for home, already mentally running through the list of training aids he’ll toss in the bed of the truck before he heads to her place the next day.
