Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 37 years as an air traffic controller before retiring two years prior, his career leaving him with a permanent hunch in his left shoulder from leaning over radar screens and a rigid refusal to deviate from any routine he’d set for himself. Widowed for 8 years, he’d turned down every set up his sister tried to arrange, insisted dating at his age was just a messy, unnecessary risk, the kind of distraction that would’ve gotten two 747s tangled up on the tarmac back when he was on the clock. His only weekly break from fixing vintage CB radios in his garage was the 9 a.m. Saturday run to the local farmers market, where he bought exactly two pounds of O’Henry peaches from the same stand every time, no small talk, no detours, home by 9:45.
That routine shattered the second a 10-year-old on a neon scooter cut him off right past the honey stand, sending his paper bag of peaches tumbling to the asphalt, three of them rolling under the folding table of the hot sauce booth he’d walked past a dozen times and never looked at twice. He knelt to grab them at the exact same time the woman running the booth did, their foreheads almost knocking hard enough to leave a mark, and when he looked up he recognized her immediately: Carla Voss, ex-wife of his old shift lead Greg, the woman he’d spent 22 years working beside and quietly, guiltily crushing on, back when both of them were married, when he’d never have dared say a word about the way her laugh made the long overnight shifts feel shorter.
She didn’t hesitate, just grinned like she’d been waiting for him to trip over himself, her silver hoop earrings catching the July sun so bright they made him blink. The space under the table was cramped, their knees pressed together through the denim of their jeans as they grabbed the last peach, her calloused thumb brushing the back of his hand when she passed it to him, the rough edge of a burn scar on her wrist scraping his knuckle. She smelled like coconut shampoo and smoked habanero, the air around her thick with the bright, sharp tang of fermented peppers, and he froze for a second, stuck between the familiar buzz of desire he’d buried for decades and the sharp, old pang of guilt – Greg still texted him once a week to invite him golfing, for Christ’s sake, this was the kind of line he didn’t cross.
She didn’t let him linger in that headspace long, yanking him up to standing by his elbow, her grip firm, no hesitation. “I see you walk past here every single week,” she said, leaning against the edge of her booth, one hip cocked, her eyes not leaving his, no shyness, no game playing. “Figured eventually something would make you stop. You want a sample?” She held out a small plastic cup with a slice of peach dipped in a golden orange sauce, and he took it, his fingers brushing hers again, this time neither of them pulling away fast. The sauce hit his tongue first sweet, then slow, warm burn that spread from his throat to the tips of his ears, and he coughed a little, making her laugh again, that same rough, bright laugh he remembered from the tower. She handed him a cold can of lime seltzer, condensation dripping down the sides onto her wrist, and when he took it her hand stayed on his for half a beat longer than necessary, her thumb brushing the pulse point on his wrist.
He admitted he’d had a crush on her back when they worked together, said he’d felt too guilty to ever say anything, like he was breaking some unwritten rule between coworkers, between friends. She snickered, wiping a smudge of hot sauce off the edge of her booth with a rag, and told him Greg had cheated on her with a 26-year-old admin 3 years prior, left her for a condo in Phoenix and a motorcycle, so he could stop worrying about Greg’s goddamn feelings. She leaned in a little closer then, close enough that he could see the faint freckles across her nose he’d never noticed from across the tower floor, her knee brushing his where they stood, the noise of the market fading into a low hum around them.
He didn’t overthink it, for the first time in as long as he could remember. Asked her if she wanted to get a burger and a beer at the dive bar down the street once she closed up her booth for the day, no plans, no timeline, just whatever happened. She grinned, grabbed a napkin from a stack by the samples, scribbled her number on it in blue ballpoint, the edge of the napkin already stained with a splotch of red hot sauce, and tucked it into the breast pocket of his faded flannel shirt, her thumb brushing the fabric over his chest for a split second before she pulled her hand away. He walked back to his beat up Ford F150 with his slightly scuffed peaches in the bag, the napkin crinkling against his chest when he breathed, the burn of the habanero still lingering on his tongue. He paused before opening the truck door, pulled out his phone, and texted his golf buddy Greg that he’d have to skip their game next weekend.
