Manny Ruiz, 59, spent 28 years as an air traffic controller at the small regional airport north of Portland before retiring three years prior. He’s a stickler for routine, hasn’t deviated from his Saturday schedule in 11 years, ever since he missed a tiny prop plane’s blip on the radar, triggering a near mid-air collision that put him on administrative leave for six months. No one got hurt, but he still carries the weight of that split second of inattention, tells himself he doesn’t get to have nice surprises, doesn’t get to cut corners or bend rules.
He’s at the small town annual August street fair for his usual homemade lemonade from the 4H stand, same as he is every year. The line is longer than usual, a group of teens yelling so loud they drown out the bluegrass band playing two stalls over. He shifts his weight, adjusts the frayed brim of his 2017 Astros World Series cap, and that’s when the smell hits him: slow-roasted pork, fresh masa, red chili and lime, thick enough to coat the back of his throat.
A gust of wind blows a stack of paper napkins off the tamale stand next to him, and a woman’s arm brushes his as she dives to catch them. Her forearm is warm, sun-kissed, a tiny hummingbird tattoo peeking out from the frayed edge of her red bandana, a callus rough on her knuckle where it scrapes the back of his hand. He looks down, and she looks up, and he recognizes her immediately: Lila Marquez, his ex-wife’s first cousin, 16 years younger than him, the girl who used to sneak beers out of his cooler at family barbecues back when he was still married.
He freezes. His ex-wife Carla had made it very clear after their messy 2014 divorce that anyone in the family who so much as said hello to him would be cut off, no exceptions. He hasn’t spoken to a single member of her family in nine years.
She smirks, wipes a smudge of chili powder off her cheek with the back of her hand, and nods at his cap. “Still wearing that ugly thing? I thought Carla threw that out when you forgot your 15th anniversary dinner to go to a playoff game.”
He huffs a surprised laugh. He’d forgotten she was there that night, had driven three hours from college just to crash the dinner, had snuck him a slice of cake when Carla stormed out of the restaurant. “Carla did throw it out. I dug it out of the trash can on my way to the game.”
She snorts, grabs a tamale from the steamer behind her, peels back the corn husk so steam curls up between them, and holds it out. “On the house. Pork, extra chili, just how you used to like it.”
He hesitates, his brain running through a dozen rules he’s set for himself: don’t talk to Carla’s family, don’t accept gifts from people you don’t owe anything to, don’t deviate from the routine. But the tamale smells too good, and her smile is too sharp, too warm, and he takes it. The corn husk sticks to his thumb when he takes a bite, spicy juice dribbles down his chin, and she laughs, leans in without thinking, wipes it off with the edge of her apron, her thumb brushing the corner of his lip for half a second.
The touch is electric. He can smell coconut shampoo and chili and lime on her, the sun is warm on the back of his neck, the bluegrass band is playing a slow, twangy cover of Jolene, and for a second he forgets how to breathe.
“Carla’s in Boca right now,” she says, like she can read his mind, leans against the edge of the stand so her shoulder presses to his, close enough that he can feel the heat off her skin through his thin cotton tee. “Cheating on her second husband with a golf pro. She’s not gonna find out we talked.”
He nods, takes another bite of the tamale, doesn’t say anything. He’s spent so long avoiding anything that could cause trouble, that could feel like a mistake, he’s forgotten what it feels like to want something that isn’t on his typed-up to-do list.
She checks her watch, nods at the dwindling line at her stand. “I close up in 45 minutes. I got a rental cottage down by the Willamette, a bottle of reposado tequila I’ve been hoarding for three months, and no plans for the rest of the night. You wanna come?”
His first instinct is to say no. He was supposed to go home, watch the Astros play the Rangers, re-organize his collection of vintage air traffic control radios, be in bed by 10. But he looks at her, at the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the chili powder still smudged on her cheek, the way she’s biting back a smile like she already knows he’s gonna say yes, and he doesn’t say no.
He helps her load the coolers and the steamer into the back of her beat up 2008 Subaru Outback, carries the stack of folding chairs for her, and she tosses him the keys when they’re done. “You drive. I’m exhausted from standing all day.”
He catches the keys, opens the passenger door for her, and she leans up before she gets in, kisses him quick, soft, tastes like lime soda and chili and salt, the smudge of chili powder on her cheek transferring to his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it off.
He gets in the driver’s seat, turns the key, and the radio cuts on to a scratchy Stevie Nicks track, loud enough to drown out the last of the fair noise drifting from down the street. She reaches over the center console, laces her fingers through his, her palm rough from rolling masa all day, and he pulls out onto the road, doesn’t even glance at the clock on the dashboard to check if he’s missing the first pitch.
