Manny Ruiz, 62, retired Chicago O’Hare air traffic controller, ducks through the door of The Salty Pelican at 7:12 PM Wednesday, shaking Gulf rain off his frayed oilskin jacket so hard a few drops hit the closest bar stool. He’s been coming here every Wednesday for 11 months, ever since he moved into the cinder block cottage half a mile down the beach, a last-ditch effort from his daughter to yank him out of the empty Chicago house he’d refused to leave for 7 years after his wife Elena died. His knuckles are still stiff from replacing the starter on his 1978 Boston Whaler that afternoon, and his left wrist bears the thin, silvery scar he got when a loose radar antenna swung into him at 27, a permanent souvenir of the 35 years he spent talking 747s down through blizzards and thunderstorms. He’s always sat at the far end of the bar, three stools away from any other patron, so he can stare out the fogged window at the bobbing boat slips without making small talk.
The only other person in the bar is Lila, the 41-year-old part-time bartender who moved into the cottage next to his three months prior, the same woman he’d walked in on changing out of her swimsuit in the shared community laundry room three weeks earlier. They’d both frozen, him holding a basket of dirty work shirts, her in nothing but a neon pink sports bra, both red-faced enough to match the neon “BEER” sign above the bar before he’d mumbled an apology and bolted. They haven’t spoken since, only exchanged tight, awkward nods when they pass each other on the beach. Today, the far end of the bar is puddled from a leak in the tin roof, so he hesitates for a second before sliding onto the stool two spots down from the register, where she’s wiping a highball glass so hard her knuckle blanches white. She meets his eye for half a second before looking down at the glass, and he can see a faint flush creep up her neck, visible under the strap of her faded white tank top.
She brings his usual order without him asking: a 12-ounce draft of Yuengling, a basket of boiled shrimp dusted with Old Bay, a side of cocktail sauce so thick it sticks to the plastic ramekin. When she sets the basket down, her wrist brushes his, both of them pulling back fast like they touched the hot griddle behind the bar. “Saw you out on your Whaler Saturday,” she says, leaning her hip against the bar instead of walking away, and he blinks, surprised. He’d been anchored a mile out, fishing for red snapper before the sun came up. “I run at 6 AM on the beach,” she adds, picking at a chip in the Formica bar top, her chipped pale blue nail polish catching the light. “You had that blue cooler tied to the stern. Looked like you were catching something good.” He mumbles that he caught three, threw two back, and she huffs a laugh, rough around the edges like she smokes menthols when no one’s watching. The rain is lashing the roof so loud the jukebox playing George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning” is barely audible, and the streetlights outside flicker once before going out entirely.
The bar goes pitch black for two seconds before the emergency LED light under the bar kicks on, casting faint blue light across the room. Lila swears under her breath, reaching for the pack of matches next to the register, and she trips over a crate of Shiner Bock someone left by the foot of the bar. She falls forward, right into his lap, and he catches her on instinct, his hands landing firm on her hips. She’s warm through the thin fabric of her jeans, her hair falling in his face, smelling like coconut sunscreen and rain and the fried okra she’d been eating earlier. He can feel her heart hammering fast against his chest, and for ten full seconds, neither of them moves. He’s screaming at himself in his head, that this is wrong, that he’s too old, that he’s betraying Elena, that she’s married—he’d seen the wedding ring on her left hand when she first moved in, right? But then she pulls back a little, her face inches from his, her breath warm on his cheek, and he sees that her left hand is bare.
“He left two months ago,” she says, like she can read his mind, her voice soft enough that he can barely hear it over the rain. “Texted me from Key West, said he’d met someone who didn’t mind living on a boat 10 months out of the year. I haven’t taken the ring off long enough to get used to the empty spot until last week.” He nods, his hands still on her hips, and he realizes he doesn’t want to move them. He’s spent 7 years thinking any happiness that didn’t involve Elena was a crime, spent 7 years eating frozen dinners alone, sleeping on his side of the bed, refusing to let anyone even borrow a screwdriver from his garage. She reaches up, her thumb brushing the silvery scar on his left wrist, and he flinches a little, surprised. “I’ve noticed that every time you come in,” she says, smiling a little, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Always wondered how you got it.” He tells her about the radar antenna, about the 12 stitches the base doctor gave him, about how Elena had teased him for weeks for being clumsy enough to walk into a swinging piece of metal. She laughs, and he laughs with her, the first real laugh he’s had that didn’t feel like he was stealing something from someone in years. When she laces her fingers through his, calloused from shucking oysters and hauling laundry and pulling weeds in her front yard, he doesn’t even think to pull away.
