Flagging Love

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the partially demolished street as Dave took his position at the south end of the construction zone. He checked his radio, made sure his water bottle was full, and adjusted his neon yellow vest before picking up his sign… the familiar octagonal STOP on one side, bright orange SLOW on the other — tools of his trade.

Two hundred yards north, Jessica did the same. Her movements were efficient and practiced, the routine of a woman who had been directing traffic for the better part of three years. Her red face and shoulder-length blonde pigtails emerged unabashedly from her soiled and faded blue hard hat, emblazoned with the Chambers Construction logo.

Dave watched her through his sunglasses. Even from this distance, he recognized the precise way she squared her shoulders before taking her position. They'd been working together for over a year now, and in that time, he'd developed an almost supernatural awareness of her rhythms.

The radio crackled. "North and south flaggers set?" asked Mitch, the grizzled but never surly site foreman.

"South flagger ready," Dave replied.

"North flagger ready," Jessica's voice came through, steady and clear.

And so began another day of their silent dance.

Traffic control was an art form few appreciated. To the uninitiated, it might look straightforward enough: Stop cars when needed, let them go when possible. But Dave knew better. It was a delicate choreography, especially with just one lane open. Miscommunication meant congestion at best, accidents at worst.

When Jessica rotated her sign to SLOW, Dave knew exactly how many cars she was sending through, even though that number varied each time. He could feel the rhythm of the traffic from his end, knew when to expect the last vehicle, and precisely when to flip his own sign from STOP, thus releasing the cars waiting in his queue. They rarely needed the radios. A slight nod of Jessica's head, the angle of Dave's arm, the timing of their sign flips — these were their vocabulary.

"Those two are something else," Mitch often said to the other workers. "Like they got telepathy or something. Them’s the kinda partnerships y’all should pray for."

Dave would just smile and chuckle. It wasn't telepathy. It was something simpler: attention. He paid attention to Jessica in a way he'd never paid attention to anyone.

The excavator's hydraulics whined as it dug into the street, exposing the aged water main that needed replacement. Dave used the lull in traffic to steal another glance at Jessica. She was talking to a driver in a red pickup truck, her hands gesturing to explain the detour ahead. Even in heavy work boots and a visibility vest two sizes too large, she moved with a grace that fascinated him.

Jessica was different from the women Dave was usually interested in — taller than him by a couple of inches, broad-shouldered, with strong arms from years of outdoor work. A rather slight fellow himself, his last girlfriend had been a petite dental hygienist who complained when he tracked dirt into her apartment. Jessica, he imagined, wouldn't mind a little dirt.

Not that they'd talked much. Their occasional radio conversations were mostly limited to work matters: "Cement truck coming through," or "Watch for that school bus." The rest was all happening in the space between them, in their silent coordination.

Dave wasn't shy — far from it. The other workers often joked that he could talk the ear off a statue. He'd chat with anyone: crew members, curious pedestrians, even the neighborhood dogs that stopped by the construction site. But with Jessica, the words seemed to evaporate before reaching his tongue.

"You ever gonna ask her out, or what?" his coworker, James, asked during their lunch break.

Dave nearly choked on his sandwich. "Who?"

"Who?" James mimicked, rolling his eyes. "The other flagger, man. Jessie. You've been making moon eyes at her for months."

"Pshh, have not. I look in her direction all day for the traffic, man. The traffic." Dave protested, though he could feel his cheeks warming.

"Sure, sure," James chuckled. "Look, life's short. Ask her out for a drink or something."

"We barely talk."

"Yet you two work together better than any flaggers I've seen. Strange, ain't it?"

Strange indeed, Dave thought as he returned to his post. The afternoon dragged on, the July heat rising from the asphalt in shimmering waves. Dave's shirt clung to his back, and his arm ached from holding the sign steady. But his attention never wavered from his task, from the dance he and Jessica performed across the construction zone.

A black BMW approached too quickly, and Dave held his STOP sign more firmly, stepping slightly into the lane. The car slowed reluctantly. From the north end, Dave saw Jessica turn her sign, sending another group of vehicles through.

This was the part he loved most — anticipating the flow, feeling the rhythm of the traffic as if it were music. He knew exactly when the last car would pass, precisely when Jessica would rotate her sign back to STOP. And in that moment, as if confirming his thoughts, she did exactly that, then gave him a small nod.

His cue. Dave turned his own sign to SLOW and waved the waiting cars forward. He couldn't explain how he knew, but he was certain Jessica was already expecting eleven cars, not ten or twelve. Without radio confirmation, they maintained this perfect balance all day, every day.

"That's it," he muttered to himself as the eleventh car passed. "I'm asking her today."

As the workday neared its end, Dave felt an unfamiliar nervousness building. He was never anxious about talking to people — it was one of his natural talents. Yet as he helped pack up the safety cones, his mind raced through potential conversation starters.

Jessica was by the work truck, signing out her equipment. One pigtail had come partly undone, wisps of hair framing her face.

"Hey," Dave said, walking up to her with a casual wave that he hoped disguised his sweaty palms.

"Hey yourself," she replied with a small smile. Her voice was lower and softer than it sounded over the radio.

"Good work today," he offered, immediately wincing at how formal that sounded.

"Thanks. You too." She checked something off on her clipboard.

An awkward silence stretched between them, so at odds with their wordless communication through the preceding hours that Dave almost laughed.

"So, uh, I was wondering," he finally managed, "if you might want to, ya know, grab dinner sometime? Maybe tonight, even… if you're free?"

Jessica looked up, surprise evident in her eyes — hazel, he noticed for the first time. Then her expression softened.

"Tonight works," she said. "I'd like that."

They agreed to meet at Riverside Grill, a casual place not far from the construction site. Dave showered and changed into clean jeans and a button-down shirt. As he parked, his collar-length light hair still damp at the edges, he saw Jessica pull in. He couldn’t decide whether to wait for her or just go in. He started toward her car, then turned away. He looked back and caught her eye, but then continued to the restaurant door, only to stop and wait.

When Jessica walked up, he barely recognized her. Gone was the bulky safety vest and work boots. Instead, she wore a simple, short-sleeved blue dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. She half-waved and put her arm down, quickly.

"Heya," she said, awkwardly, when she was still about 20 feet away from him. "You look different without all the neon."

"So do you," he replied, suddenly aware of how petite his frame was compared to the solid presence she commanded. "Good different, I mean."

She smiled, and he noticed a slight dimple in her right cheek.

When they got in, he gestured toward a booth and asked, “You want a table or the bar or…?”

She replied, “Oh, I don’t care, it’s up to you,” then started toward a nearby table.

Before sitting down, she turned to see that he’d gone a different direction and snagged a booth by the window. She winced a bit, then came over and slid into the booth across from him. They sat in silence for a bit before the server came by with menus. Dave was grateful for the momentary distraction. The nervousness he'd felt earlier had returned tenfold. This was ridiculous, he told himself. They worked together perfectly every day. Why should dinner be any different?

But it was different. Entirely different.

They each silently scanned the menu until the server’s return. When Jessica ordered the alfredo pasta, the server asked if she’d like shrimp on it.

“No, she doesn’t like shellfish.” Dave reflexively spoke up, recalling her aversion from a team lunch a year ago. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

Jessica smiled and similarly informed the server that Dave couldn’t have cheese, when he ordered his burger, recalling his stated lactose intolerance from the save event.

"So," he began after they'd ordered, "you been flagging long?"

"A few years… three, maybe," Jessica replied. "You?"

"About a year and a half. Landscaping before that."

She nodded. Silence fell again.

Dave searched for another question. "Do you like it? Flagging, I mean."

"It's steady work," she said with a slight shrug. "Pays the bills. You?"

"Same, I guess. I like being outdoors."

Another nod. Another silence.

Dave struggled for something meaningful to say. This wasn't at all like the wordless communication they shared on the job. There, every movement seemed loaded with meaning, every gesture perfectly timed and understood. Here, face to face, they were fumbling like strangers.

The server brought their drinks, and Dave took a long sip of his beer, wondering how to bridge this unexpected gap. Why in hell was he just talking about work? How could he angle the conversation to his love of books or her love of movies, which he knew about? The most obvious starters were escaping him.

"You're really good at it." ‘Shit,’ he thought; I’m doing it again. "Flagging. We work well together."

"We do," she agreed, seeming to relax slightly. "I noticed that right away when you started."

A flicker of their workday connection passed between them, but it quickly faded as silence descended once more.

"Where are you from?" Jessica asked after a moment.

"The womb, originally,” he attempted a little humor, but she only looked at him, confused. “Um, Oregon, actually. A little town you probably haven't heard of called Oakridge."

"Actually, I have. My cousin lived there for a while. Small world."

"Really small," Dave agreed, latching onto this thread. "And where are you from?"

"Right here," she said. "Born and raised."

The conversation stuttered along with this surface talk through fried appetizers and into the main course. Factual exchanges, brief polite questions and answers, none of the easy rhythm they had on the job. Dave felt an increasing sense of disappointment. Had he imagined their connection?

Midway through dinner, a small commotion drew their attention. An elderly man at a nearby table was having trouble with his chair, which had one leg shorter than the others and kept wobbling. Without a word, they both stood up at exactly the same moment to help.

They looked at each other in surprise, then smiled. Dave gestured for Jessica to go ahead. She moved toward the man, and Dave followed, instinctively knowing what she planned to do. She helped the man to his feet and steadied the chair while Dave grabbed a folded paper napkin from an empty table and wedged it under the short leg. The man thanked them profusely as they returned to their booth.

"That was..." Jessica began.

"Just like at work," Dave finished.

Jessica pushed her pasta around her plate. The silence stretched, almost a physical thing between them.

Dave searched her face for the signals he'd become so attuned to on the job, but up close, without the familiar context of work, he couldn't read her. This close, he was noticing the wrong things — the small scar near her left eyebrow, the exact shade of her hazel eyes, the way she absently tapped her fingers against her water glass.

"This isn't really working, is it?" he sighed finally.

Jessica's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Not like I thought it would. I don’t understand."

Dave put down his fork. After a moment of hesitation, he extended his open hand across the table, palm up.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Just... try something with me?"

She studied his hand for a moment, then placed her palm against his. Dave closed his eyes.

They fell silent. Dave felt the warmth of her hand against his, the slight calluses on her palm. He focused on her breathing, on the ambient sounds of the restaurant fading into the background. When he opened his eyes again, the awkwardness had dissipated — not completely gone but lessened somehow.

Jessica withdrew her hand slowly. "Better," she said softly.

The rest of dinner flowed more naturally. They discussed some of her favorite movies… his favorite books, her favorite authors, his favorite directors. The conversation still stuttered occasionally, but the silences no longer felt like failures. Sometimes they'd just eat without speaking, exchanging glances that seemed to communicate more than their words had.

After dinner, they walked along the riverside path. The summer evening was warm, the setting sun painting the water in shades of gold and pink. Without discussing it, they fell into step beside each other, their pace matching as naturally as their sign rotations had been earlier that day.

"Tell me something you've noticed about me," Jessica said suddenly.

Dave looked at her, surprised by the question. "At work?"

She nodded.

"You always adjust your cap three times when you first put it on in the morning. Right side, left side, then the bill."

Jessica's eyebrows rose. "I do?"

"Every day," Dave confirmed with a small smile.

She studied him for a moment. "You talk to yourself when you think no one's watching. And you have this thing you do when you're getting impatient — you roll your shoulders back twice."

Dave chuckled softly. "Guess we pay attention."

They stopped by the river's edge, watching the last light fade from the sky. Standing close enough that their arms almost touched, Dave felt something of the easy rhythm they shared at work return.

"So," he said finally, "do we try this again?"

Jessica turned to look at him, her expression thoughtful. Then, without speaking, she reached out and took his hand in hers — a simple gesture, clear as any signal from across the construction zone.

Message received, Dave thought, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Two months later, Dave and Jessica still worked the same construction zones, still communicated with an almost supernatural effectiveness. But now, when their shifts ended, they didn't go their separate ways.

James found it hilarious. "Only you two," he said, shaking his head, "would fall in love from opposite ends of a road."

Dave would just smile. There was something fitting about it — finding connection across a distance, building a bridge between two people with nothing but attention and care.

Not all love stories begin with clever words. Some start far more simply: STOP… SLOW… STOP… SLOW… and with two people who saw each other clearly from two hundred yards away.