Manny Ruiz, 62, retired wildland fire crew foreman, had not let a stranger touch his skin on purpose in three years. The scar snaking up his left forearm from the 2020 August Complex burn was a private reminder, one he kept covered in long sleeves even on 92-degree Oregon summer afternoons, until the heat of the farmers market had forced him to yank his flannel off and tie it around his waist an hour prior. He carried a flat of heirloom brandywine tomatoes slung over his right shoulder, the purple-streaked skins sticky with dew, destined for the food bank booth at the far end of the gravel lot. He’d walked past Clara’s honey stand every Saturday for four months, had even memorized the pattern of chipped pale yellow polish on her fingernails from quick, avoidant glances, but had never spoken a word to her. Every time she smiled and lifted a hand in greeting, he’d tucked his chin and walked faster, too worn down from 18 years of quiet anger at his ex-wife’s infidelity to entertain even the smallest, most harmless friendly overture.
The kid’s neon blue scooter appeared out of nowhere, left propped in the walkway between the jam stand and the baked goods booth. Manny tripped over the handlebars, his tote bag slung over his left arm spilling three of the tomatoes he’d set aside for himself, and his outstretched hand connected square with a full quart jar of wildflower honey on the edge of Clara’s stand. The glass shattered, thick golden honey oozing across the pine tabletop, dripping down to coat his scarred forearm, a tiny splatter landing on the knee of her faded denim overalls. He froze, fumbling for his wallet in the pocket of his work jeans, face hot with embarrassment, already mentally bracing for the sharp complaint he’d earned. Instead, she laughed, low and warm, not mocking, and leaned across the table toward him, the scent of clover and lavender wrapping around him before she even spoke.
“Relax, I break at least three jars a weekend,” she said, grabbing a stack of paper towels from under the counter. She reached across the table, her calloused fingers brushing the raised edge of his burn scar first by accident, and he flinched so hard he knocked a plastic honey dipper off the table. She paused, her hand hovering an inch from his arm, hazel eyes flecked with gold meeting his for the first time he’d ever let them. “I won’t bite. Just don’t want you walking around with honey in your arm hair the rest of the day. It attracts bees, for one thing.”
He nodded, too stunned to speak, as she dabbed at the honey on his forearm, her touch firm but gentle, the rough callus on her thumb catching on the edge of his scar every few passes. The noise of the market faded into a hum: the kid who’d left the scooter laughing as his mom chased him across the lot, the bluegrass band playing on the stage by the entrance, the distant clang of a food truck bell. He noticed the smudge of beeswax on her left cheek, the tiny silver hoop earring in her right nostril, the faint scar cutting across her chin from a bike crash when she was seven, she volunteered, when he found himself staring at it too long. Part of him screamed to pull away, to throw $20 on the table and run, to go back to his small cottage, eat tomato sandwiches alone, watch old John Wayne movies, keep the world at arm’s length like he’d done for nearly two decades. The other part of him, the part he’d thought died when his ex-wife drove off with a rookie firefighter half his age, felt light, like the weight he’d carried in his chest for 18 years had lifted just a little.
He offered to pay for the jar three times, and she turned him down every time, finally holding out her hand for the three unbruised tomatoes that had spilled out of his tote. “Trade,” she said, her fingers brushing his when he passed her the biggest one, deep purple, already soft at the stem. “These are the ones the food bank sells out of in 10 minutes, right? I’ve been trying to get my hands on one for weeks. I’ll give you a fresh jar of honey, even throw in a small jar of the sage blend I harvest up in the hills.”
He took the jars, tucking them carefully into his tote, and was halfway through a stilted thank you when she leaned in a little closer, close enough that he could smell the mint gum she was chewing, her shoulder almost brushing his across the narrow table. “I was actually gonna track you down sooner or later,” she said, tucking a strand of gray-streaked brown hair behind her ear. “Got a bear breaking into my hives out on my property west of town. Heard you used to set up electric fence perimeters for fire camps. Would you help me run a line? I’ll pay you in as much honey as you can carry, and a whole peach pie. I make the best peach pie in the county, ask anyone.”
For half a second, his mouth was already forming the no he’d practiced for every invitation that didn’t involve his tomato plants or his monthly poker game with the other retired fire crew guys. Then he looked down at the sticky spot on his forearm where her hand had been, looked back at her smile, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and said yes before he could talk himself out of it.
They exchanged numbers, her screen smudged with beeswax when she handed it to him to type his contact info in, and he walked away toward the food bank, the jars of honey heavy in his tote, his face still hot. He paused at the edge of the lot, twisting the cap off the root beer he’d bought from the food truck ten minutes earlier, and glanced back over his shoulder. She was waving at him, wiping the beeswax smudge off her cheek with the back of her hand, and he lifted the jar of wildflower honey in a small, clumsy wave back, the late afternoon sun turning the golden liquid inside bright as a flame.
