Elias Voss, 57, runs a vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a converted cinder block garage on the edge of Newport, Oregon, hasn’t gone on a single date since his divorce finalized 8 years prior. He’d built a routine so rigid you could set a clock by it: wake at 6, drink black coffee while he sanded a gas tank, take lunch at the same taco stand every Tuesday and Thursday, leave the shop only for the monthly summer farmers market to sell custom handlebar sets and engraved foot pegs. His biggest flaw, the one even he’d admit to if he drank enough beer, was that he ran from any connection that threatened to ruffle the quiet, uncomplicated life he’d built for himself after his ex left for a software salesman in Portland.
The August market air is thick with cut grass, fried Oreo grease, and salt coming off the bay, the sun beating so hard on the back of his flannel shirt he can feel the sweat soaking through the collar, even with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He’d scrubbed his hands twice before he left the shop, but there’s still permanent black grease crammed under the edges of his fingernails, the kind that never fully comes out no matter how much Lava soap you use. He’s just wrapped up a sale of a 1972 Triumph handlebar set to a kid from Portland, shoving the cash in the pocket of his work jeans, when he spots the new honey stand two booths over.
She’s leaning against the edge of the folding table, auburn hair pulled back in a loose braid that’s half falling out, laughing so hard her shoulders shake at a toddler who’d dipped a whole pretzel straight into the open sample jar of hot honey, crumbs stuck to his chubby cheeks. There’s a streak of flour on her left wrist, a dainty bee tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of her denim jacket, and when she catches him staring, she doesn’t look away, just lifts an eyebrow and nods at the sample jar.
He walks over before he can talk himself out of it, mumbles a request for a taste. She hands him a tiny plastic spoon, their fingers brushing when he takes it, the contact sending a little jolt up his arm that he hasn’t felt since he was 20 and sneaking into his high school girlfriend’s bedroom after curfew. The honey burns bright on his tongue, sweet first then sharp with chili, and he makes a face that makes her laugh again, low and warm, no shrill edge to it.
She asks about his calloused hands, the grease under his nails, and he tells her about the shop, the 1978 Honda CB750 he’s been restoring for two years that he only takes out on quiet coastal roads early in the morning when there’s no traffic. She tells him she moved to town three months prior, inherited the bee farm from her grandma, her ex had laughed at her for wanting to leave Chicago to sell honey at small town markets, so she’d left him too.
A group of regular market vendors walk by then, hooting and teasing them, saying they’re the only two single people in the whole county who refused to sign up for the stupid town “Market Match” raffle everyone’s been obsessing over for the last month, that they’d be the perfect pair if they’d stop being so stubborn. Elias feels his neck go hot, immediately tenses up, already halfway to making an excuse to leave, already berating himself for stopping to talk to her in the first place, for letting himself even consider letting someone new into his carefully constructed routine. He hates those stupid town gimmicks, hates the idea of being paraded around like some prize for a raffle, hates the thought of having to make small talk with a stranger for an hour over bad wine just because someone drew his name out of a hat.
She smirks, leans forward a little so her shoulder is almost touching his, close enough that he can smell lavender and raw honey on her skin, tells the group the raffle is a load of crap, but she’d be down to skip the line at the fish taco truck later if he’s free. Elias freezes, his chest tight, two warring parts of him fighting: the one that’s gotten used to quiet dinners alone, to no one asking questions about where he’s going or when he’ll be back, the part that’s disgusted with himself for even thinking about saying yes, and the other part, the part he’d thought died 8 years ago, that’s curious, that’s tired of eating tacos alone, that wants to see what it feels like to talk to someone who actually laughs at his stupid jokes about carburetor rebuilds.
A gust of wind blows off the bay then, sending a stack of her honey jar labels flying off the table, skittering across the dusty asphalt. They both bend down to grab them at the same time, their heads bumping softly, and she reaches out to touch his shoulder to make sure he’s okay, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his flannel. He looks up at her, at the flecks of gold in her green eyes, at the smudge of honey on her bottom lip, and he doesn’t think, just says “I know a spot up the coast, cliff side, you can see the gray whales migrating this time of year, we can skip the taco truck, take the Honda, if you bring a jar of that honey and some of that cornbread I see stacked behind you.”
She blinks, then grins so wide her cheeks dimple, says she’ll meet him at his shop in an hour, grabs a pen from her apron pocket, scribbles her cell number on the back of a honey label, shoves it in the front pocket of his work jeans, her knuckles brushing his hip when she pulls her hand back.
He walks back to his booth, his face still hot, the taste of hot honey still lingering on his tongue, and he pulls out his beat up old iPhone, types out a text before he can overthink it: Wear closed toed shoes. The trail up to the cliff is rocky. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, looks down at the grease under his fingernails, at the crumpled honey label peeking out from his jeans pocket, and for the first time in 8 years, he doesn’t feel the urge to run.
