Manny Ruiz, 53, spent three decades hauling salmon out of the Pacific before a rogue wave snapped his left knee and pushed him into his second career: restoring antique typewriters out of a 200-square foot shop tucked between a taco joint and a record store in Northeast Portland. He’d spent the last eight years actively dodging anything that resembled romantic interest, convinced the scar splitting his left eyebrow, the permanent ache in his knee, and the way he still smelled like machine oil and salt even after three showers a day made him too rough around the edges for anyone worth keeping. His ex-wife had left for a software sales rep who didn’t come home with fish guts under his nails, and he’d taken that as a universal verdict.
He only showed up to the neighborhood block party because 72-year-old Marge, who lived two doors down and brought him peach pie every Sunday, threatened to withhold all future baked goods if he hid in his apartment again. He’d planted himself against the thick trunk of the oak tree at the edge of the street, sweating through his worn gray flannel even as the September air cooled, nursing a PBR and counting down the minutes until he could slip out without anyone noticing.
That’s when Lena walked over. She was his new across-the-hall tenant, 38, a travel nurse who’d moved in three weeks prior with a dog the size of a small pony and a stack of vintage medical textbooks. He’d avoided her so far, ducking into his apartment when he heard her door open, leaving her notes about the building’s leaky radiator taped to her door instead of knocking, because every time she smiled at him with that gap between her two front teeth, his chest tightened up like he was holding his breath under a wave. The 15-year age gap felt like a neon sign warning him away, like he’d be the creepy old guy hitting on the new nurse if he so much as said hello for longer than ten seconds.
She was holding a paper plate stacked high with elote, cheese crumbs dusting her cutoff denim shorts, a cold seltzer can tucked under her other arm. She stopped so close to him he could smell coconut shampoo and the lime on her breath over the stench of grilled bratwurst and the hum of the 90s cover band playing at the end of the block. “I’ve been trying to catch you for days,” she said, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the music, her shoulder brushing his bicep. She didn’t pull back after.
He froze, his beer can sweating so much the label was slipping off. He’d spent the last three weeks telling himself he was disgusted by his own quiet interest, that he was too old, too boring, too stuck in his ways to even entertain the thought of talking to her for more than a minute. But she was looking up at him, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners, and he couldn’t think of a single excuse to leave.
She told him about the old Royal typewriter her mom had left her, the one her mom had carried around for 30 years when she worked as a travel nurse too, writing down stories from every hospital she worked at before she died of lung cancer six months prior. “I tried to fix it myself,” she said, laughing, and her hand brushed his forearm when she did, warm and soft against the calluses on his skin. “I broke the shift key. I’m pretty sure I made it worse.”
A kid on a scooter swerved around a group of people carrying jello shots, slamming into Manny’s bad knee. He stumbled forward, his hand catching on her hip to steady himself, his palm pressing through the thin fabric of her shorts for half a second before he pulled back, stammering an apology. She waved it off, laughing so hard she snort-laughed, and grabbed his wrist to keep him from toppling over when his knee buckled. “Easy there, fisherman,” she said, and he realized she’d asked Marge about him, that she’d been looking for him on purpose.
He agreed to fix the typewriter for free, told her he’d bring his tools over whenever she wanted. She asked if he wanted to come over right after the party, said she had a bottle of reposado tequila her mom had left her, that they could drink it while he looked at the Royal. He hesitated for half a second, all the old voices in his head screaming that it was wrong, that he was too old, that he’d just mess it up like he messed up his marriage. Then he looked at her, still holding his wrist, her thumb brushing the scar on his knuckle from a fishing hook accident, and he said yes.
They left 20 minutes later, her big golden retriever trotting ahead of them, her shoulder bumping his every other step as they walked down the sidewalk, the streetlights flickering on one by one. He was holding her half-eaten elote plate for her while she texted her sister to tell her she’d found someone to fix the typewriter, the smell of her coconut shampoo mixing with the leftover grill smoke hanging in the air. He reached for the front door of their building, his bad knee barely throbbing, and held it open for her and the dog to step inside first.
