Ray Ruiz, 62, retired border patrol canine handler, had spent the last eight years perfecting the art of avoiding small town social events. Widowed at 54, he’d moved from El Paso to the scrubby outskirts of Tucson, kept his head down fixing vintage Ford F-100s in his garage, left extra citrus from his orange tree on his next door neighbor’s porch, and turned down every half-hearted set-up his buddies tried to push his way. Stubborn to a fault, he’d convinced himself he didn’t need anyone new messing with the quiet routine he’d built. The only reason he was even at the summer food truck festival was because the guy who ran his favorite carnitas truck owed him a favor fixing his generator, and had bribed him with all the free tacos and beer he could eat.
He was leaned up against a metal utility pole, half-empty Modelo in one hand, faded navy border patrol cap pulled low against the sun, when he saw her trip over a loose cooler cord three feet away. She was carrying a paper tray stacked high with elote, arms flailing for balance, and he moved before he thought about it, catching her elbow with his free hand to steady her before she face-planted into the dirt. The corn didn’t spill. She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the mariachi music and the yelling of kids chasing each other between trucks, and thanked him, brushing a strand of sun-streaked dark hair out of her face.
He recognized her immediately from the photos taped to his neighbor Mabel’s fridge. Lila, Mabel’s 48-year-old niece, who ran a native plant nursery up in Flagstaff, who’d been in town for two weeks helping Mabel recover from knee replacement surgery. He’d purposely avoided dropping by Mabel’s while she was visiting, scared of being put on the spot, of the inevitable awkward small talk he never knew how to navigate. Now she was standing right in front of him, a smudge of chili powder on her left cheek, cutoff denim shorts showing off a constellation of freckles across her knees, linen button down tied loose at her waist, the smell of coconut sunscreen rolling off her and mixing with the smoky scent of grilled pork and roasted corn in the hot air.
They talked for 45 minutes straight, leaning against the same pole, their shoulders brushing every time someone squeezed past them through the crowd. She told him she’d worked at a pit bull rescue for five years before opening the nursery, that she’d heard all about his old patrol dog, Max, who he’d adopted after retiring and who’d passed two years prior. She knew he fixed Mabel’s fence every time a javelina rammed through it, that he left fresh peaches on her porch in July, that he drank his coffee black with one packet of Splenda. He felt off-kilter, like she’d been paying attention when he’d gone out of his way to be invisible. He almost reached up to wipe the chili powder off her cheek three separate times, pulling his hand back every time, telling himself it was too forward, that Mabel would kill him if he made a move on her niece, that he was too old, too gruff, too set in his ways for someone as bright as her.
The mariachi band shifted to a slow, swaying cumbia, and couples started drifting into the open patch of dirt between the taco truck and the popsicle stand to dance. She turned to him, eyes glinting in the golden sunset, and asked if he knew how to dance. He told her he hadn’t danced since his wedding day, 32 years prior. She didn’t take no for an answer, lacing her fingers through his calloused, grease-stained hand and tugging him into the crowd before he could protest.
His hand settled on her waist, hers resting light on his shoulder, and they swayed off-beat, neither of them paying attention to the steps. She was close enough that her chest brushed his every time they shifted weight, her breath warm against his neck when she laughed at how clumsy he was. When she tilted her head up to look at him, he didn’t look away. He lifted his hand, brushed his thumb across her cheek to wipe off the chili powder, his skin lingering against hers for a beat longer than necessary. She smiled, leaned in a little, and told him she’d asked Mabel to introduce them three times already, but Mabel had said he was too stubborn to show up when she was around.
They danced three more songs, until the sun dipped below the desert horizon and the string lights strung between the trucks flickered on. She said she had to get back to Mabel’s, to help her get settled for the night, and pulled a crumpled napkin out of her bag, scribbling her phone number on it in blue ballpoint. She tucked it into the pocket of the gray flannel he had tied around his waist, leaned up, and kissed his cheek, her lips soft against his sunburnt skin. She told him to call her tomorrow, she wanted to see the 1972 F-100 he was restoring in his garage.
He stood there long after she’d walked out of sight, holding the napkin through the thin fabric of his flannel, his beer now warm in his other hand. A group of teens ran past, one of them knocking his shoulder hard enough to slosh beer down his jeans, and he didn’t even complain. He pulled his old flip phone out of his pocket, fumbling with the buttons to save her number before the sweat soaking through the napkin smudged the ink completely.
