Manny Rios is 62, retired lineman for the Hill Country Electric Co-op, four years a widower, and he’d rather drive 30 minutes out of his way than stop for small talk at the corner gas station. It’s not that he hates people. He just got used to quiet after Linda passed, got used to his days of fixing neighbors’ breaker boxes for free, sharpening his collection of vintage pocket knives on the back porch, and taking his 12-year-old heeler, Blue, for long walks along the creek behind his paid-off ranch house outside Austin. He shows up to the VFW fish fry every Friday without fail, claims it’s the only catfish within 20 miles that’s not overbreaded and under seasoned, but mostly it’s the only social obligation he doesn’t feel guilty bailing on early.
The September heat still hangs thick enough to make his shirt stick to his shoulders by 6PM, and the VFW hall’s window unit is wheezing like it’s one breath away from giving out. He’s in his usual corner booth, picking at a pile of hushpuppies and twisting the bone handle of his 1965 Case knife between his fingers, when a shadow falls across the table.
“Mind if I sit? Every other spot’s taken.”
He looks up. She’s mid-50s, sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a braid, freckles across her nose, wearing faded work boots and a flannel tied around her waist. Her forearm brushes his when she sets her iced tea down on the Formica tabletop, and he catches a whiff of lavender hand soap and cut alfalfa, the same scent Linda used to bring home after working in the garden. He tenses up automatically, already bracing for the usual line about hearing he’s handy with wiring, or that he’s got extra hay to sell, or some widowed aunt who needs a date to the county fair.
“Sure,” he says, leaning back as far as the booth will let him, keeping his hands folded on the table like he’s in a meeting with his old foreman.
She introduces herself as Clara, the new county extension agent, moved out from Portland three months prior, here with the auxiliary president who’d been badgering her to come to the fry for weeks. She nods at the knife in his hand. “You sharpen that yourself? Edge’s too clean to be a store job.”
Manny blinks. No one’s commented on his knife sharpening since Linda died, not even the guys he used to work with. He nods, turning it over in his fingers. “Been doing it since I was a kid. Dad taught me on a wet stone he got in Korea.”
She leans in, elbows on the table, and he can see the calluses on her fingertips, rough from digging in soil, from turning wrenches on her old pickup. He feels that stupid, familiar twist in his chest, half desire half disgust at himself for even noticing—he’d told himself he was done with this sort of thing, done with making small talk, done with risking getting attached to someone just to lose them again. He should make an excuse to leave, tell her he’s got a dog waiting at home, that he’s got an early morning fence repair. But he doesn’t.
He shows her the etchings on the knife’s blade, tells her he traded a used generator for it at a flea market six years back. She laughs when he tells the story of the guy who sold it to him thinking it was a cheap knockoff, and her laugh is loud, unapologetic, no high-pitched performative lilt to it. She’s got a scar across her left knuckle, she says she got it when a goat bit her while she was helping a 4-H kid set up a pen last month.
They talk for an hour, the noise of the hall fading out around them, until most of the other guests have packed up and left, the only sound left the clink of dishes being stacked in the kitchen and the distant hum of crickets through the screen door. He reaches across the table to hand her the knife so she can get a better look at the etchings, and their fingers brush when she takes it. She doesn’t pull away fast, just holds his gaze for three full beats, her thumb brushing the back of his knuckle for half a second before she looks down at the blade.
“I’ve been meaning to track you down for weeks,” she says, still running her finger along the edge. “The ladies at the community garden said you do free wiring work for local nonprofits. We’re putting in raised beds for the food bank, need someone to run wiring for the grow lights for the winter greens. I can pay you in peach pie from my tree and homemade salsa. No cash, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Manny snorts. He’d been assuming she was going to ask him out, had already half talked himself into saying no, and the relief mixes with that same stupid twist of want in his gut. “Peach pie and salsa’s better pay than the co-op ever gave me,” he says.
They agree to meet at the garden plot on Saturday at 10 AM. He walks her out to her beat-up 1998 Ford F-150, watches her unlock the door, and she taps his wrist with her index finger before she climbs in. “Don’t be late. I already baked the pie last night. It’s got a crumb top.”
He stands in the gravel parking lot until her taillights fade around the bend down the highway, Blue’s cold nose nudging his hand where he’s leaning against his own truck. He’d forgotten what it felt like to look forward to something that wasn’t a quiet night alone with a western and a cold beer. He opens the truck door for Blue, climbs in, and turns the key, already mentally making a list of the tools he needs to bring on Saturday.
