Rafe Mendez, 62, a retired storm drain inspector from Cleveland, only agreed to attend the fire department taco fundraiser because his neighbor pounded on his garage door at 4 p.m. and wouldn’t leave until he said yes. He had spent the entire day sanding the gas tank of his partially restored 1982 Honda CB750, his nails covered in clear coat and rust, and intended to spend the evening eating frozen meatloaf and watching old westerns by himself, as he usually did. He had maintained his emotional barriers since his wife Lydia passed away from ovarian cancer eight years ago, declining every invitation to block parties, potlucks, and even the local fishing club’s annual trip, convinced that any new relationship would only end in the same acute, empty sorrow he still felt when he discovered her old coffee mug tucked away in the back of the cabinet.
He stood off to the side of the parking lot, grasping a grease-stained paper plate that held two carnitas tacos and a lukewarm Modelo in a flimsy plastic cup, dressed in his worn, oil-stained Carhartt jacket despite the April air being warm enough for short sleeves. The tacos were from the same truck that used to park outside the public works yard back in the 90s; he had to admit they tasted just as he remembered, salty and spicy with a splash of lime that tingled the edges of his mouth. He was about to leave early when he heard a snort-laugh from ten feet away, loud enough to pierce through the sounds of children playing and the fire crew sharing tales about the latest kitchen fire they had responded to.
He glanced over, and his chest constricted. The woman appeared to be around 58, with curly gray hair pulled back in a messy braid, faded denim overalls smeared with garden dirt at the cuffs, and bare arms freckled all the way to her shoulders. She was listening to the fire marshal tell a joke, leaning against a chain link fence, and when she laughed again, she threw her head back, revealing a small silver hoop in her left nostril. Rafe chuckled too, a quiet huff he thought went unnoticed, but she turned her head at that moment, caught his gaze, and smiled.
He froze, attempting to look away as if he were admiring the fireworks display the crew was preparing behind her, but she pushed off the fence and walked directly over. She carried the scent of lavender hand lotion and fresh earth, the same rich, damp aroma he remembered from the community garden down the street he had passed a hundred times but never visited. “You’re the guy who left a bag of heirloom tomato plants on my porch last May, right?” she asked, stopping so close their elbows nearly touched. “I grew those; they were the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. They reminded me of summer before air conditioning.”
Rafe’s throat went dry. He had had far too many seedlings from the plants he grew in his back porch planters, leaving them on the nearest porch he spotted with empty garden beds, not even knowing who lived there. He nodded, fumbling for a moment with his taco, causing some of the pork to fall onto the plate. “Uh. Yeah. Had too many. Didn’t want them to go to waste.”
She extended a hand, calloused at the palms, dirt still under her fingernails. “Elara. I run the community garden. I’ve seen you in your garage working on those bikes through the fence. You make a lot more noise on Saturday mornings than the old guy who used to live there did.” She winked, and Rafe felt his face flush, something light and bubbly in his chest he hadn’t experienced since he was 20 and taking Lydia to drive-in movies on his old bike.
They stood there for 20 minutes, conversing, with Elara leaning against the fence beside him, their elbows brushing each time she reached for a napkin or he lifted his beer to his lips. He shared stories about the 2007 flash flood when he rescued two teenagers, and about the strangest thing he’d ever discovered in a storm drain: a full-size porcelain toilet still attached to a piece of subfloor. She recounted the tale of the man who kept stealing zucchini from the community garden, who left a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies on the gate last week as an apology. Rafe battled the urge to pull away the entire time, a quiet voice in his mind insisting he was being foolish, that getting close to anyone would only bring pain, that he was betraying Lydia by even enjoying a conversation with another woman. But each time Elara laughed, that snorting, carefree laugh, the voice grew quieter.
Then the first firework exploded, a burst of red lighting up the sky above the fire station, causing the children in the crowd to scream with joy. A stray spark drifted right toward Elara’s braid, and Rafe instinctively reached out, swatting it away before it could ignite, his palm brushing the top of her curly hair for just a moment longer than necessary. She turned to him, her eyes shimmering gold from the next firework that burst above them, and she didn’t step back, nor did she pull away.
Rafe inhaled deeply, ignoring the voice in his head urging him to flee. “I’ve got that CB750 halfway apart in my garage. I also have a case of cold Modelo in the fridge. Want to come see it? I can show you how to change the oil if you’d like; my wife always wanted to learn but never got around to it.” He held his breath, anticipating her rejection, worried she might think he was a strange old creep hitting on her at a fundraiser.
Elara smiled, slipped her hand into his, her palm calloused and warm against his. “Lead the way. I’ve been pestering my brother to teach me for years; he always claimed girls don’t belong in a garage.”
They strolled down the sidewalk toward his house, the sound of fireworks diminishing behind them, their shoulders brushing every few steps, Rafe’s rough work hand entwined with hers, the flavor of lime and carnitas still sharp on his tongue. As they turned onto his street, he noticed the light he left on in the garage glowing through the window, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the urge to rush back to solitude.