Manny Rios, 52, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of the sunporch of his bungalow 10 minutes outside Lima, Ohio. He’s run the same weekly schedule for eight years, ever since his ex-wife packed her car and left after he turned down their dream road trip to the Grand Canyon because it would throw off his work queue. Spontaneity, to him, feels like a dropped stitch in a perfectly knit sweater—unnecessary, messy, bound to unravel everything else. He only agreed to drop off the restored 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe he’d donated to the county fair pie contest raffle because his neighbor had begged him, and he owed her for feeding his cat when he went to a typewriter convention in Indianapolis last spring.
The pie tent smells like burnt sugar, cinnamon, and the faint, sticky tang of melted vanilla ice cream when he steps inside at 6 p.m., golden hour slanting through the canvas walls so the dust motes glow like tiny embers. The din of the Tilt-A-Whirl and the cotton candy machine right outside drowns out most conversation, so when the woman running the contest walks over to greet him, she leans in so close he can smell the lavender perfume on her neck and the peach scent clinging to her shirt cuff.
She’s Clara Bennett, 48, the new mayor’s wife, he realizes a beat later. He’d seen her photo in the local paper a month prior, posed next to her husband at the opening of the new public pool, her smile tight, her arms folded across her chest. Now her blonde hair is half falling out of its ponytail, there’s a smudge of flour on her left cheek, and her pale pink nail polish is chipped halfway down her index finger, the callus there rough when she reaches out to shake his hand. She thanks him three times for the typewriter, says she’s been entering pie contests since she was 12 and has never seen a raffle prize get that many ticket stubs already.
He doesn’t mean to stay, but she hands him a slice of the first-place peach pie, still warm, the crust crumbly and buttery, the juice so sweet it makes his teeth ache a little. When he takes the paper plate from her, their fingers brush for three full seconds, and she doesn’t yank her hand away like he expects her to. She just laughs, quiet, when he admits he can barely make toast without burning it, let alone bake a pie that would win a ribbon. Her shoulder presses against his bicep when she points out her own entry, a blueberry pie that got third place, and he can feel the heat of her skin through his worn flannel shirt, even through the thick August humidity.
He knows he should leave. He has a frozen meatloaf in the fridge at home waiting to be microwaved, a 1930s Underwood he’s halfway through repairing on his workbench, a routine he hasn’t broken in almost a decade. He also knows her husband is 50 feet away, schmoozing with the farm bureau guys by the beer tent, his tie loose, his laugh booming loud enough to carry across the fairgrounds. The idea of staying feels wrong, like he’s stealing something he hasn’t earned, but when she tilts her head and asks him if he wants to stick around until the tent closes so she can show him the old typewriter she has in her attic that won’t feed paper right, he doesn’t say no.
They spend the next hour folding up the flimsy vinyl folding chairs, stacking the empty pie tins in plastic bins, listening to the last of the contest winners give their awkward little speeches. When she locks the tent flap behind them, the sun is almost gone, the fairgrounds lit up with neon pink and electric blue lights, the air cool enough that he can see his breath when he laughs at her story about how her husband forgot their 20th anniversary last month because he was busy negotiating a new deal for the town’s water system. She shivers a little, and he hands her his flannel shirt without thinking, his fingers brushing her shoulder when he helps her slip it on.
She asks him if he wants to ride the Ferris wheel, and he nods, even though he hasn’t been on a Ferris wheel since he was 16, when his high school girlfriend had dumped him mid-ride because he’d refused to skip the rest of the fair to go to a party. The line is short, just a handful of teens making out and a family with two little kids holding cotton candy sticky enough to string between their fingers. When they step into the car, she slips her hand into his, her palm warm and a little sweaty, and laces their fingers together.
They don’t talk as the car rises, the whole town spreading out below them, the lights of the fair twinkling, the distant rumble of the highway soft enough to fade into the background. When they get to the top, she turns to him, her eyes bright in the neon glow, and leans in so her lips are almost touching his. The Ferris wheel lurches a little as it starts to descend, and she kisses him, slow, the taste of peach pie and lemonade on her tongue, her free hand curled around the back of his neck. He doesn’t think about his routine, or the meatloaf in his fridge, or her husband standing by the beer tent 100 feet below. He just kisses her back, his thumb brushing the callus on her index finger, the pink neon light painting her cheeks the same shade as her chipped nail polish. When they get off the ride, she doesn’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t pull away. They walk toward the exit together, the sound of the fair fading behind them, her hand fitting perfectly in his.
