Elwood Mendez is 53, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a cinder block shop tucked between a laundromat and a tattoo parlor in west Asheville. His biggest flaw, per his ex-wife, is that he’d rather spend three weeks prying a stuck carriage free off a 1920s Underwood than hold a 10 minute conversation with a stranger. He’s lived by that rule for eight years post-divorce, only leaving the shop for supply runs and the annual downtown beer and bluegrass festival, where he donates one restored piece to the silent auction every year.
He’d planned to drop off the 1950s Royal he’d spent two months fixing up, grab the free volunteer beer token the organizer always shoves in his hand, and head home before the first band finished their opening set. The air smelled like fried green tomatoes and pine, peanut shells crunched under his scuffed work boots, and the hazy IPA he’d poured was colder than he expected, so he lingered, leaning against an oak barrel table off to the side of the crowd.
He was twisting the typewriter’s auction plaque between his fingers when she walked over. He’d seen her earlier, sprinting across the field to fix a collapsed folding table for a group of retirees, copper streak in her dark brown hair, faded Willie Nelson tee peeking out under a plaid flannel, work boots caked in half an inch of mud from the previous night’s rain. She was the event coordinator, he knew that, had seen her at the festival the last three years, but they’d never talked longer than 30 seconds.
She stopped less than a foot away from him, close enough that he could smell cedar and citrus on her shirt, the faint tang of bourbon on her breath. “I was wondering if you’d show up this year,” she said, nodding at the plaque in his hand. She reached for it at the same time he lifted it to hand over, their knuckles brushing, calloused on both sides, and she didn’t yank her hand back, held eye contact for a beat longer than strictly polite. “I’ve bid on your typewriters every year. Always get outbid at the last second.”
Elwood froze for half a second. He was used to people treating his work like a cutesy gimmick, not something someone would actively chase. He shifted his weight, the wood of the barrel digging into his hip, and shrugged. “People like the aesthetic for Instagram. Don’t usually care if they actually type.”
“Nah, I write short stories,” she said, leaning against the barrel next to him, her shoulder brushing his every time someone squeezed past the narrow walkway beside them. “My ex said collecting old typewriters was a waste of closet space. Among other things.” She laughed, low and warm, and the banjo player on the main stage switched to a slower, twangier track, the noise of the crowd fading just a little around them.
Elwood’s internal alarm was blaring. He hadn’t flirted with anyone in seven years, had convinced himself any spark he felt with someone younger was just sad midlife desperation, the kind of thing that made guys his age buy overpriced sports cars and embarrass themselves on first dates. He wanted to make an excuse to leave, wanted to go back to his shop where the only conversations he had were with half-broken typewriters that didn’t expect anything from him. But he didn’t move.
She pushed off the barrel a minute later, nodding toward the small batch bourbon tent tucked at the far end of the field, strung with warm yellow string lights, almost empty this early in the evening. “Wanna skip the auction preview? I know the guy running the tent, he’ll pour us free samples of the 12 year.” She held out a hand, palm up, and hesitated for half a second like she thought he’d say no.
He said yes before he could overthink it. When she stepped over a loose curb half way across the field, she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her hand warm through the thin fabric of his work shirt, left it there for three full steps before she let go. They squeezed into a small booth at the back of the tent, the wooden seat sticky with spilled bourbon, and their knees brushed under the table when they sat down, neither of them moving away.
They talked for an hour, through three small samples of bourbon that burned warm going down, and she listened when he rambled about the quirks of different typewriter models, didn’t roll her eyes when he told her he’d once driven six hours to pick up a broken Royal from a barn in east Tennessee. She told him she’d left her long term boyfriend three months prior, said he’d called her “too stubborn” for wanting to quit event planning to write full time. “Said I was too old to chase a stupid dream,” she said, swirling the last sip of bourbon in her cup, and Elwood felt a sharp, hot flicker of anger on her behalf.
“Stupid dreams are the only ones worth chasing,” he said, and she smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up, and leaned in a little closer, her knee pressing firmer against his. “I got a 1930s Underwood in my shop right now, it types in maroon ink. Spent three months fixing the ink roller. Wanna come test it out tomorrow? Before the festival starts.”
She nodded immediately, pulled her phone out of her flannel pocket, and handed it to him to put his number in. Their thumbs brushed when he passed the phone back, and she typed a quick text to him so he had her number, the screen lighting up her face. The main stage speaker crackled to life a minute later, announcing the start of the silent auction bidding, but neither of them moved to leave. Somewhere outside the tent, someone lit a bonfire, the faint smell of wood smoke drifting through the open flaps, and Elwood didn’t even think about the half-finished typewriter waiting for him on his workbench, or the quiet empty house he’d been planning to go home to an hour earlier. He lifted his half-empty bourbon cup, clinked it gently against hers, and let the warm, unfamiliar hum of anticipation settle low in his chest.
