Elroy Mendez, 62, retired air traffic controller, hunched over a dog-eared copy of *Red Storm Rising* at the east Austin beer garden, had planned every detail of his afternoon to avoid the monthly 50-plus social the space hosted. His central AC had blown out that morning, the repair tech quoting a three-day wait for parts, so he’d grabbed his book, a worn ball cap, and driven the 12 minutes to the garden specifically because he’d thought the crowd would be mostly college kids skipping summer classes, not a pack of his peers in khakis and bedazzled blouses looking for a second shot at romance. He’d made it 45 minutes, three-quarters of the way through a Shiner Bock, before someone slid onto the stool 6 inches to his left, far closer than the other three empty stools at the high top required.
He looked up, irritation sharp on his tongue, before he got a good look at her. She was 58, maybe, sun-bleached blonde hair streaked with silver at the roots, a canvas utility belt slung low on her hips holding stainless steel grooming scissors, a bag of chicken treats, and a half-empty pack of lavender wet wipes. A tattoo of a golden retriever curled around her left wrist, the ink faded at the edges from sun exposure. She ordered a frozen margarita, extra salt, and when she lifted the glass to take her first sip, a flurry of salt crystals landed on the bare forearm he’d propped on the table. She caught him staring at the flecks, then held his gaze for three full beats, no shy look away, no flustered apology, just a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth that made the fine lines around her eyes crinkle.
He brushed the salt off his arm and went back to his book, but he couldn’t focus. She smelled like coconut dog shampoo and lime, and every time she shifted in her seat, the edge of her utility belt brushed the thigh of his work jeans, a faint, warm pressure he hadn’t felt from another person in four years, not since Linda had been in the chemo ward, reaching for his hand under the hospital blanket. He’d made a promise to himself after she died, no dating, no stupid attempts to replace what he’d had, that any guy his age chasing women was just a sad, desperate old fool making a fool of himself. He’d turned down every set up his daughter had tried to arrange, blocked three different women from his Facebook friend requests who’d gone to his high school reunion, told himself he was fine alone, mowing his lawn twice a week, fixing old lawnmowers for neighbors for free, eating frozen lasagna for dinner three nights a week.
“Clancy fan?” she said, nodding at his book, and he jumped a little, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He grunted a yes, and she laughed, a rough, warm sound like she smoked a single cigarette a night on her back porch after work. “Ex-husband had a whole shelf of those. Left 12 of them in the back of my grooming van when he bailed for a 28-year-old yoga instructor. I use ’em to prop open the door when it’s hot out.” She held out a hand, calloused at the palm, nails chipped with pale blue polish. “Carla. Run Paws & Polish mobile grooming. Just finished dematting a 90-pound golden retriever that rolled in a skunk spray two blocks over. Needed a drink bad enough I didn’t care I was walking into a senior mixer.”
Relief flooded him, sharp and unexpected, that she wasn’t there to hit on him, wasn’t part of the crowd he’d been avoiding. He told her his name, what he used to do for work, about his broken AC, and she laughed again, leaning in a little closer when she responded, so her knee bumped his under the table, and she didn’t move it. They talked for 40 minutes, him telling her about the 747 that had nearly collided with a small private jet his last year on the job, her telling him about the poodle that had bitten her ear last month when she tried to trim the fur around its face. He reached for the napkin dispenser at the same time she did, their knuckles brushing, and his skin prickled, hot and tight, and he had to look away for a second to catch his breath.
The line dance started up then, some old Garth Brooks track blaring over the speakers, a woman in a sequined top walking over to ask if they wanted to join. Carla shook her head, leaning in so close her breath was warm against his ear, the coconut scent of her shampoo wrapping around him, and said, “Wanna get out of here? I live 10 minutes away, my AC works, and I have that same Clancy novel in hardback, if you wanna finish that chapter you’ve been staring at for 20 minutes.”
Elroy froze, the voice in his head screaming that this was wrong, that he was betraying Linda, that he was gonna make an idiot of himself, that he was too old for this kind of stupid, spontaneous garbage. But then he looked at her, at the half-smirk still on her face, at the golden retriever tattoo on her wrist, at the way she wasn’t pushing him, just waiting, and he thought about going back to his hot, empty house, eating frozen lasagna alone, going to bed at 8 PM with nothing but the sound of his ceiling fan creaking. He nodded, closed his book, and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Carla slung her utility belt over her shoulder, grabbed the half of her margarita she hadn’t finished, and passed him his half-empty beer when he stood up. Their fingers brushed as he took it, and he didn’t pull away. He followed her across the gravel parking lot, the sound of her cowboy boots crunching underfoot louder than the voice in his head telling him he shouldn’t go.
