The Food Truck Flirtation

Big Mama's Soul Bowl isn't just a food truck.

It's therapy on wheels. I'm Patricia—"Big Mama" to my customers—fifty-six years old, serving oxtails and comfort to the tech bros and artists of Austin.

"You single-handedly keeping soul food alive in this city," they tell me.

I just keep serving.

He starts showing up in March.

Tall, dark, suit too expensive for food truck lines. Orders the same thing every time—red beans with cornbread, sweet tea, extra hot sauce.

"You like it spicy," I notice after his third visit.

"I like a lot of things." His smile is slow, intentional. "What's your name?"

"Everybody calls me Big Mama."

"I'm not everybody." He extends his hand. "I'm Marcus. What's your real name?"

"Patricia."

"Patricia." He says it like he's tasting it. "That's beautiful."

"It's just a name."

"Names are never just names." He accepts his food, holds my gaze. "See you tomorrow, Patricia."

Tomorrow becomes every day.

Then twice a day—lunch and dinner service. He brings work to the park bench near my truck, eats slowly, watches me move.

"You're here again," I say on day fourteen.

"Food's that good."

"The food's the same. What else are you hungry for?"

He laughs—surprised, delighted. "Direct. I like that."

"I don't have time for games, Marcus. I've got a business to run."

"Then I'll be direct too." He sets down his fork. "I want to take you to dinner."

"I cook dinner. I don't eat it out."

"Then cook for me." He stands, moves closer to the window. "Let me come to you."

"My kitchen is a food truck."

"Your home has a kitchen too, I assume." His voice drops. "Let me see it."

I shouldn't.

He's a customer. He's at least ten years younger. He's too smooth by half.

But when I look at him—patient, persistent, looking at me like I'm more than the woman who makes his lunch—

"Sunday," I say. "I don't work Sundays."

"Sunday." His smile could power the whole truck. "What should I bring?"

"Just yourself. I'll handle the rest."

Sunday arrives too fast.

I spend the morning cleaning an apartment that doesn't need cleaning, cooking dishes that could feed an army. Marcus arrives at six with flowers and wine.

"Your place is beautiful," he says.

"It's small."

"It's yours." He looks around at the art, the books, the life I've built. "That matters more."

Dinner is awkward at first.

I'm not used to eating across from someone. But he asks questions, listens to answers, makes the conversation flow.

"Why the food truck?" he asks.

"Corporate life was killing me. Spent twenty years in accounting, hating every minute." I refill his wine. "One day I decided to cook instead."

"Do you love it?"

"More than anything I've ever done."

"Even more than being loved?"

"I haven't been loved in a long time."

It slips out before I can stop it.

"How long?"

"Twelve years. Since my husband passed."

"Twelve years." He sets down his glass. "That's too long, Patricia."

"It's just how it is."

"It doesn't have to be."

He kisses me over my own dirty dishes.

Gentle at first, then deeper when I don't pull away. His hands find my waist, pull me against him.

"I've wanted to do that since your first red beans," he murmurs.

"You've been patient."

"You're worth patience."

We move to the couch.

Then to the bedroom. He undresses me with care, like I'm something precious.

"You're staring," I say.

"I'm appreciating." He kisses my shoulder. "There's a difference."

He makes love to me like we have all the time in the world.

Slow hands, patient mouth, attention to every response. By the time he finally enters me, I'm trembling.

"Okay?" he asks.

"More than okay." I pull him closer. "Show me what twelve years should have felt like."

He shows me.

Over and over, until I've lost count of orgasms, until my voice is gone from crying his name.

Afterward, he holds me like he's afraid I'll disappear.

"That was..." I start.

"Just the beginning." He kisses my hair. "If you want."

"I want."

"Good. Because I'm planning to be in that food truck line for a long time."

Marcus becomes part of my routine.

Morning setup, lunch service, dinner service—and him, always him, showing up when the line dies down, staying until I close.

"People are talking," I warn him.

"Let them." He helps me break down the truck. "I'm not ashamed of what I want."

"What do you want?"

"You. This. Making sure you know you're more than Big Mama."

Six months later, a second truck appears next to mine.

"What is this?" I stare at the new vehicle, gleaming and outfitted.

"Expansion capital." Marcus hands me the keys. "You needed another truck. I had the investment."

"I can't accept—"

"It's business, Patricia. You pay me back with interest. And..." He pulls me close. "With other things."

Big Mama's Soul Bowl becomes two trucks.

Then three. Then a brick-and-mortar location in East Austin.

Marcus runs the business side. I run the kitchen. We run everything else together.

"Partner in crime," he calls himself.

"Partner in everything," I correct.

The smile he gives me is worth more than any investment.

Some flavors take time to develop.

Some recipes need the right ingredients to come together.

And some food truck romances lead to empires.

Spicy, sweet, and satisfying.

Just like us.