Manny Ruiz, 59, spends most of his days hunched over vintage arcade cabinets, his knuckles permanently smudged with solder and dust from 25 years of repairing and reselling 80s and 90s game units. He closed his San Antonio River Walk arcade three years prior, the day his wife Lena’s doctor told her the ovarian cancer had spread too far to treat, and he’s kept to himself ever since, only leaving his South Austin bungalow for supply runs and the occasional forced visit from his 22-year-old niece, Lila. His biggest flaw? He’s convinced any joy he lets in now is a direct insult to the 27 years he and Lena spent together, so he waves off invites to cookouts, ignores neighborly welcome baskets, and spends most nights eating frozen burritos while re-watching old Clint Eastwood westerns.
The woman who stumbled into him is his next door neighbor, the one he’s only exchanged quick, awkward waves with since she moved in two months prior. She’s carrying a paper plate heaped with elote, a thick streak of cotija cheese and chili powder dripping down the front of his navy flannel sleeve. She freezes, her hazel eyes locked on his for three full beats longer than polite, her hand hovering halfway to his arm before she seems to remember herself. “Oh my God, I am so sorry,” she says, her voice a little rough like she’s spent the day yelling over her store’s loudspeaker. Manny already knows she runs the small plant shop on the corner, has seen her hauling potted fiddle leaf figs out of her beat up Subaru Forester at 7 a.m. most weekdays, but he’s never talked to her before.
He brushes off the cheese streak with his free hand, tells her it’s fine, he gets worse stains on his clothes on a regular basis from solder and old soda residue trapped in cabinet control panels. She laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the noise of the party, and doesn’t step back, even though they’re standing close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and cinnamon gum on her breath. She introduces herself as Clara, says she’s been meaning to knock on his door for weeks, ever since she saw the Pac-Man decal on the back of his work truck. Turns out the house she bought came with a busted 1982 Pac-Man cabinet tucked in the back of the garage, and she has no clue how to fix it.
Manny’s first instinct is to say no, to make up an excuse about being swamped with commissions, to go back to leaning against the cooler and waiting for an out to go home. But she’s leaning in a little, her shoulder brushing his bicep when a group of drunk college guys yells as the band switches to a Bon Jovi track, and he finds himself saying he can swing by her place after the party to take a look, no charge.
They walk the half block to their houses as the sun dips below the oak trees, the air turning crisp enough to make the tip of Manny’s nose go cold. Clara’s wearing worn white Converse and a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt, and he notices a small sunflower tattoo peeking out above her ankle cuff when she steps over a crack in the sidewalk. Her garage smells like potting soil and wet clay, half stacked with potted succulents and half filled with half-finished pottery mugs on wooden shelves, the dented Pac-Man cabinet pushed up against the far wall, covered in a thin layer of dust.
Manny kneels to check the power cord first, and Clara leans over him to hand him a flashlight, her wavy auburn hair falling across his shoulder for half a second. He can hear her soft breathing over the hum of the garage fridge, and his ears go hot, the way they haven’t since he was a teenager asking Lena to prom. The problem is a frayed power cord, easy fix, and he runs next door to grab a replacement from his supply shelf, his hands a little shaky as he rummages through the plastic bin. He’s back in five minutes, and has the cabinet up and running 10 minutes after that, the familiar tinny beep of Pac-Man’s start screen echoing off the cinder block walls.
Clara insists they test it to make sure it works properly, and they stand shoulder to shoulder in front of the screen, their hips pressed together as she works the joystick. She’s terrible at the game, leaning so far to the left when she dodges ghosts that her elbow keeps digging into his ribs, and she laughs so hard when a blue ghost gets her that she snorts a little, clapping a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. When she beats her first high score 10 minutes later, she turns to cheer in his face, and they’re so close their noses almost brush.
Manny’s first thought is that he shouldn’t do this, that he’s betraying Lena, that dating his next door neighbor is a terrible idea that will only end in heartbreak. Then he remembers the last conversation he had with Lena, when she grabbed his hand and told him she didn’t want him to spend the rest of his life alone, that he deserved to laugh and be happy even when she wasn’t there. He leans in and kisses her, slow, and she tastes like lime soda and cotija cheese, her hand coming up to curl around the back of his neck, her calloused fingers (from hauling pots and kneading clay, he realizes) scratching lightly at the short hair at his nape.
When they pull back, Clara is grinning, and she admits she’s been making excuses to walk her golden retriever past his house every evening for the past month, hoping he’d be out in the garage working so she could wave. Manny laughs, tells her he’s been deliberately ignoring her knocks when she brought over welcome cookies, because he was scared he’d mess up whatever they could have before it even started. They turn off the Pac-Man cabinet and head out to her front porch, sitting on the weathered wooden swing as the string lights strung across her oak tree blink on, faint music from the block party drifting down the street.
He laces his calloused, solder-stained fingers through hers, and doesn’t let go when a group of kids on bikes yells as they zoom past the front yard.