Manny Ruiz, 62, spent 31 years as an air traffic controller out of PDX, a career that turned him into a man who mapped every minute of his retirement down to the second. Taco Tuesday at El Burro Loco started at 6:17 sharp, always two carnitas tacos and a Modelo Negra, always the same booth in the back, always home by 7:45 to catch the Mariners pregame show. His biggest flaw? He’d rather walk three blocks out of his way than deviate from a plan, convinced any unscripted interaction would unravel the quiet, uncomplicated life he’d built after his wife died eight years prior.
The booth was taken when he walked in that night, a group of teen soccer players yelling over a platter of nachos, and the only open seat was across from the woman who ran the used bookstore three doors down from his house. He’d seen her a dozen times, hauling boxes of books in work boots scuffed at the toe, a streak of silver cutting through her dark curly hair, linen dresses swishing around her calves when she walked. He’d heard from Mrs. Henderson next door that she only dated women, had for the last 15 years, so he’d never let himself look too long, even when he caught her staring at his 1978 CB750 parked in his driveway last month.
She nodded at the empty chair when he hovered, wiping salt off the rim of her michelada with her thumb. “Tables are criminally small here, sorry in advance if our knees knock.” He grunted, sat, and sure enough, their kneecaps brushed under the Formica top. He froze, half ready to stand and leave, but she laughed, a low, warm sound that cut through the mariachi band playing in the corner. “Relax. I don’t bite unless asked.”
He ordered his usual, and they made small talk at first, about the unseasonably warm September rain that had been dumping on Portland all week, about the taco shop raising their prices 50 cents last month. When she mentioned she used to ride a CB750 back in the 90s, had driven it cross country from Boston to Portland with nothing but a duffel bag and a stack of beat-up mystery novels, he forgot all about the Mariners pregame. She said she still had a box of old parts in the back of her bookstore, left by her ex-girlfriend when she moved out last year, he could have the whole thing for free if he helped her haul it out of the storage closet.
The old Manny would have said no, would have mumbled an excuse about getting home for the game, would have stuck to his schedule. This Manny nodded, wiped grease off his chin with a paper napkin, followed her out of the taco shop 20 minutes later than he’d ever left on a Tuesday.
The bookstore smelled like old paper and lavender and lemon polish when they stepped inside, string lights strung above the poetry section casting soft gold light over the shelves. She led him to the back, flipped on a closet light, and the box was tucked under a stack of old vinyl records. He leaned down to grab it, tripped over a crate of children’s books, and grabbed her arm to steady himself, pulling her flush against his chest, his back pressing into the spine of a worn copy of *For Whom the Bell Tolls* propped on the shelf behind him. For a second he didn’t move, could feel her breath warm against his jaw, her hand fisted in the front of his faded Mariners hoodie, the ink stains on her fingertips pressing through the thin fabric.
He’d spent eight years telling himself he didn’t deserve this, that wanting anyone other than his wife was a betrayal, that he was too old, too set in his ways, too boring for anything even close to this. He’d spent months looking at this woman from across the street, convincing himself she was entirely off limits, that there was no way she’d ever look at a grumpy, routine-obsessed retired guy twice.
She tilted her chin up, and her lips brushed his, soft at first, like she was giving him time to pull away. He didn’t. He kissed her back, slow, his hand resting light on her hip, the sound of rain tapping against the storefront window mixing with the faint Chet Baker track playing from a speaker behind the counter. When they pulled apart a minute later, she smiled, running a thumb over the gray stubble on his jaw.
“Your game’s probably already started,” she said, nodding at the clock above the cash register that read 8:02. He thought about the empty couch in his living room, the pregame show he’d watched a hundred times before, the quiet nights where the only sound was the hum of his fridge. He shook his head, lacing his fingers through hers, and tugged her toward the beat-up leather couch tucked in the corner by the fiction section.
He could catch the highlights tomorrow.
