Rafe Jimenez, 62, spent 32 years teaching high school shop before retiring three years prior, now turns custom hardwood kitchenware out of his garage in southeast Portland. He’s spent the seven years since his wife’s sudden heart attack clinging to routine like a life raft, turning down every setup his adult daughters try to arrange, insisting he prefers the quiet of his workshop and weekend beer in front of old westerns to any kind of unplanned company.
The September sun hangs low and golden over the local farmers market when Elara first leans over the cinder block divider between their stalls. He’s got his spread of maple bowls, black walnut cutting boards, and small turned coasters laid out on a burlap tablecloth, the sharp, warm smell of cured wood still clinging to the edges of each piece. She’s three weeks new to the market, runs a hot honey stand, has a hand-painted sign propped up that reads “Honey That Bites Back” in loopy orange paint. She wears faded Carhartt overalls over a threadbare pearl snap shirt, auburn hair streaked with silver at the temples pulled back in a messy braid.
She asks if he’s got an extra rubber band, says her jar lids keep slipping when customers carry them to their cars. Her shoulder brushes his bicep when she leans in, and he catches a whiff of cedar shavings (she built her own display shelves, she mentions offhand) and wildflower perfume that’s not cloying, just soft, like the meadows he used to hike with his wife back when they were in their 30s. He grunts, hands her the rubber band, goes back to polishing a bowl, determined not to engage. He doesn’t do small talk with other vendors, never has.
The sky darkens fast, no warning, fat raindrops start slamming down out of nowhere. They both scramble to cover their inventory before water warps his wood or shatters her glass jars. He grabs a vinyl tarp from under his table, she’s fumbling with a stack of honey jars that are starting to slip off her wobbly display shelf. His calloused woodworker’s hand wraps around hers when they both reach for a jar teetering off the edge, his fingers brushing her work-roughened ones, and she laughs, loud and bright, over the sound of rain drumming on the tent poles. “I knew I should’ve reinforced those shelves,” she says, wiping a drop of rain off his glasses with the hem of her shirt, her thumb brushing his cheek for half a second before she pulls back. He freezes, hasn’t had anyone touch him that casually, that softly, in years. Part of him wants to step back, tell her he’s fine, he can handle his own stock, the other part can’t stop staring at the crinkles around her hazel eyes when she grins.
They spend 10 minutes hauling their stock under the permanent awning at the edge of the market parking lot, knocking knees when they crouch to set boxes down, her elbow bumping his ribs when they both reach for a stray coaster that blew off his table. By the time the rain slows to a drizzle, most of the other vendors have packed up and left, the parking lot half empty, the air smelling like wet grass and pine. She pulls two cold IPAs out of her cooler, holds one out to him. “Figured we earned this,” she says. He hesitates, then takes it. He’s got nothing to rush home for, anyway.
They sit on folding chairs next to each other, the gap between them so small their knees keep knocking when they shift. She tells him she moved to Portland six months ago, left a 28-year marriage to a corporate lawyer who cared more about his country club membership than he did about her, started the honey business with the hives she’d kept in her backyard for 15 years that he’d always called a “silly waste of time.” He tells her about his shop class kids, the woodturning side gig, his daughters who keep trying to set him up with their friends’ moms. She laughs when he complains about the blind date they made him go on last month, where the woman spent two hours talking about her cat’s raw food diet. “That sounds brutal,” she says, leaning in a little, her shoulder pressing against his now, no accidental brush this time, intentional, warm. He doesn’t pull away.
She pulls a small jar of her hottest honey out of her bag, twists the lid off, dips a cracker in it, holds it out to him. He takes a bite, the sweet clover taste hitting first, then a slow, steady burn at the back of his throat, good, bright, not overwhelming. “That’s damn good,” he says. She grins, says she’s been looking for someone to make custom wooden honey dippers for her, can’t find any that are the right size, no mass-produced garbage. She asks if he’d be interested in the work, pays well, will even trade him free honey for half the order if he wants. He says yes before he even thinks about it.
The sun comes back out, painting the clouds pink and orange as it starts to set. They exchange numbers, she types her contact info into his beat-up old iPhone, her fingers brushing his when she hands it back. He offers to carry her boxes of honey jars to her beat-up 2008 Toyota Tacoma, hefts two heavy boxes into the bed while she folds up her display shelves. When he’s done, she tugs on the hem of his faded flannel shirt, pulls him in for a quick, soft kiss, tastes like honey and the citrus seltzer she was sipping between beer sips, her hand resting light on his chest for a second before she steps back. “Text me tomorrow about the dippers?” she says, grinning as she climbs into her truck. He nods, waves as she pulls out of the parking lot.
He tucks his phone back into his pocket with a grin, already mentally mapping the three-foot white oak plank he’s got stacked against the back wall of his garage that will make the perfect first batch of honey dippers.
