Manny Ruiz, 52, vintage snowmobile restorer based outside Duluth, had been camped at his folding table at the Iron River winter swap for seven hours when he started considering packing up the unused 1978 Ski-Doo carburetors he’d been trying to offload all day. His feet were numb inside waterlogged work boots, he’d eaten two lukewarm chili dogs slathered in neon yellow mustard, and the only offers he’d gotten on the carbs were from teenagers who wanted to trade a beat-up helmet and half a bag of beef jerky. Twelve years out from his wife leaving him for a 28-year-old ski instructor who couldn’t tell a spark plug from a tire iron, Manny had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, convinced any friendly overture was either a request for free labor or a ploy to get him to volunteer for trail maintenance he didn’t have the bandwidth for.
She walked up at 4:17, he noticed the time because the dented analog clock above the snack bar ticked loud enough to cut through the hum of the crowd. Her jacket had the local snowmobile club logo stitched on the breast, along with the last name of the club president, the same guy who’d banned Manny from the annual poker run the year prior after Manny called him out for clearing private property for a new trail without asking the landowners. She unzipped her heavy winter coat as she leaned over the table, revealing a faded 1977 Fleetwood Mac tour tee underneath, and the scent of pine sap and peppermint lip balm wrapped around him before she said a word. Her wool sleeve brushed his knuckle when she reached for the printed spec sheet he’d laid out next to the carbs, and he fumbled the flathead screwdriver he’d been twisting between his fingers, sending it clattering to the scuffed linoleum.
They talked for 40 minutes, first about the carburetors’ compatibility with mid-70s Elan models, then about the 1976 Elan he was restoring for his niece’s 16th birthday, then about how her husband had spent the entire swap yelling at volunteers for not selling enough raffle tickets instead of helping elderly vendors haul 50-pound engine blocks to their cars. The crowd thinned out around them, and when a group of teens carrying stacks of old helmet visors pushed past, she stepped closer to him, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, and didn’t move back even after the kids had cleared the hallway. Manny caught himself staring at the smudge of motor oil on her left wrist, the exact same spot he always got stained when he was tearing apart a carburetor, and had to bite the inside of his cheek to remind himself she was married, that getting tangled up with the club president’s wife would get him run off every trail within 100 miles, that he was better off packing his stuff and heading home alone like he always did.
When the event coordinator announced the building was closing in 10 minutes, she nodded toward the door, said her truck was parked closest to the entrance, and offered to drive him to his beat-up F150 stuck at the far end of the slush-covered lot. He agreed before he could talk himself out of it. The walk to her truck was short, wind driving snow into their faces hard enough to make his eyes water, and when they climbed inside, the heater was already cranked, blowing warm air that smelled like vanilla air freshener and diesel. She turned the key so the engine idled, then twisted in her seat to face him, her knee brushing the gear shift between them.
She told him she was filing for divorce next week, that she’d been driving to every swap within a two-hour radius of Iron River for six months just to catch a glimpse of him, that she liked how he talked to old sleds like they were old friends, how he gave free parts to teen kids who couldn’t afford to fix up their first rides, how he hadn’t backed down when her husband yelled at him in front of 30 people the year prior. Manny didn’t say anything for a beat, just studied the way the streetlight filtering through the falling snow glinted off the small silver hoop in her left ear, then reached across the console, his calloused thumb brushing the snow-melt damp strand of hair stuck to her cheek. She leaned into his touch, her hand coming up to cover his where it rested against her jaw, and he didn’t pull away when she tilted her face to press a soft kiss to the palm of his hand. He reached for the stack of carburetor spec sheets on the seat next to him, scribbling his cell phone number on the back of the top page before sliding it across the dash to her, already mentally clearing space on his workbench for the half-restored 1976 Elan she’d mentioned was sitting in her garage, waiting for someone who cared enough to get it running right.
