Manny Ruiz, 62, retired south Texas high school woodshop teacher, leans against a splintered picnic table at the county fair, sweating through the collar of his faded pearl snap. He drove 45 minutes from his small ranch outside town to judge the student woodworking entries, a gig he’s taken every year since he quit teaching 10 years prior. His left forearm bears a thin, pale scar from a 2010 table saw accident, the same incident that pushed him into early retirement, and he picks at the edge of it unconsciously while he sips lukewarm draft beer. He’s avoided any kind of romantic entanglement for 15 years, ever since his ex-wife left him for a 22-year-old kid who’d been in his senior year woodshop class, convinced anyone who showed interest in him only wanted something he couldn’t or wouldn’t give.
The beer garden is packed, the air thick with the smell of fried Oreos, horse manure, and cheap coconut sunscreen. The rodeo announcer’s drawl booms across the fairgrounds from the adjacent arena, mixing with the tinny twang of a cover band playing 90s country near the carnival rides. He’s about to toss his empty can and head home when a woman in a lemon-yellow sundress slides onto the bench across from him, setting a peach seltzer on the table between them. All the other tables are full, so he doesn’t say anything at first, just nods politely, until she laughs, low and warm, and says his name like she’s known him her whole life.