Horchata Hearts

Corazones de Horchata

Every summer I set up my horchata cart in the plaza. Every summer she walked by without buying.

"Why don't you ever stop?" I asked finally.

"I don't like sweet drinks."

"Then why do you walk by every day?"

She blushed. "I like watching you make them."

Her name was Alicia. She worked at the museum across the plaza—air conditioning and ancient artifacts all day.

"It must be nice to stay cool," I said.

"It gets lonely. The art doesn't talk back."

"Neither does horchata."

"But you do. That's why I walk by."

She started stopping. Not for drinks—for conversation.

"Tell me about this," she'd say, watching me blend rice and cinnamon.

"It's my grandmother's recipe. She learned from her grandmother."

"Legacy in a glass."

"When you put it that way, yes."

I brought her horchata anyway. Free sample.

"I said I don't like sweet."

"Try it."

She did. Her eyes widened.

"This is..."

"Life-changing?"

"I was going to say different. But life-changing works."

She became my best customer. Ironic, for someone who didn't like sweet.

"You converted me," she said.

"I just introduced you to what you didn't know you wanted."

"Are we still talking about horchata?"

"Are we?"

I kissed her after closing one night. Her lips tasted like cinnamon.

"I knew this was happening," she said.

"How?"

"Because I've been walking past your cart for three summers hoping you'd notice me."

"I noticed you the first day."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"I was waiting for you to stop."

We don't wait anymore. She helps me set up now. Talks to customers while I blend.

"Best horchata in California," she tells everyone.

"Second best thing in the plaza," I correct, looking at her.

We married in that plaza. Horchata at every table. Her museum colleagues shocked that the cool curator fell for the street vendor.

"To sweet things," we toast.

"To finally stopping," she adds.

Horchata hearts—where patience pays off, and the sweetest love is worth the wait.