Rudy Galvez, 61, made his living restoring antique typewriters for collectors, universities, and occasional teen poets who thought analog was edgier than Google Docs. His hands were crisscrossed with tiny scars from spring snaps and sharp metal edges, his left knuckle swollen permanently with arthritis that flared worst on cold, rainy Portland nights. He’d sat in the same back booth at The Rusty Spur’s Wednesday trivia night for three years straight, never joining a team, never chatting up the regulars, just nursing a bourbon on the rocks and scribbling answers on a napkin until the last round ended. He’d almost skipped that night, his fingers throbbing so bad he could barely grip his car keys, but the bar was the only place he didn’t feel like the walls of his workshop were closing in around him, seven years of widowhood weighing heavier than the cast iron Royal he was currently restoring.
The host banged a beer bottle on the bar to get everyone’s attention, yelling that the Halloween pre-game round required random two-person teams, no solo players allowed, no exceptions. Rudy was already reaching for his jacket when a woman slid into the booth next to him, thigh pressing warm through his worn denim jeans, the scent of pine soap and peppermint hard candy wrapping around him before she said a word. He glanced over, first noticing the faded black flannel, ripped work jeans, scuffed steel-toe boots, then the tattoo of a 1950s Royal typewriter curling around her left forearm, ink faded at the edges like it was 20 years old. “You’re Rudy, right?” she said, leaning in close enough that her hair brushed his cheek, the bar’s jukebox blaring Tom Waits so loud he had to turn his head to hear her. “I’m Lena. Elise’s cousin. You fixed my typewriter when I was 19, summer I visited you guys out on the coast.”
Rudy’s throat went dry. He remembered her, the quiet kid who’d holed up in his workshop for three weeks scribbling bad poetry, too shy to make eye contact but curious enough to ask a hundred questions about how each machine worked. He’d not seen her since Elise’s funeral, when she’d hugged him quick and slipped out before he could even thank her for coming. He tensed up, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that Elise’s family was off limits, that people would talk if they saw him even sitting next to her. But then she flagged down the bartender and ordered him a bourbon, neat, exactly how he drank it, and said she’d been coming to trivia for three weeks waiting for him to show up, too nervous to knock on his workshop door unannounced.
They got through the first three rounds without stumbling, her nailing all the 2000s medical drama questions, him running the table on 80s punk and vintage office equipment trivia. Her knee stayed pressed to his under the table the whole time, no move to pull away, her arm brushing his every time she reached for her IPA or the bowl of salted pretzels in the middle of the booth. When he messed up a Taylor Swift lyric question, she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, leaning into his shoulder, her hand resting on his bicep for a full three seconds before she pulled back. He could feel the calluses on her palms, the same kind he had, from 12 hour shifts as a traveling ER nurse, she told him, the ones she’d gotten hauling patients and lifting equipment across half a dozen states.
He was halfway to making an excuse to leave, guilt coiling tight in his gut for even enjoying the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she held eye contact longer than casual conversation called for, when she leaned in so close their foreheads almost touched, the noise of the bar fading to a hum for a second. “I moved to Portland for you,” she said, quiet, like she was admitting something she’d been holding in for years. “I had a crush on you that whole summer I visited. Never said anything ‘cause Elise was my favorite cousin, and I didn’t want to mess anything up. But it’s been seven years. I’m tired of pretending I don’t think about you every time I sit down to type.”
Rudy froze for a beat, his first thought of the family Christmas dinners, the way Elise’s sister would side-eye them if they showed up together, the whispers that he was taking advantage of a younger relative by marriage. Then he looked at her, biting her lip just like she had when she was 19 and asked him to fix her beat-up Royal, and he realized he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him like he was something worth crossing the country for. He didn’t say anything for a second, just reached over, laced his fingers through hers, the arthritis in his knuckles not even twinging when he squeezed.
They finished the last round, came in second place, won a $25 bar tab that Lena stuffed into the pocket of his work jacket, her fingers brushing his chest through the flannel he wore under his coat. She kissed his cheek on the way out, slow, warm, the press of her lips lingering through his stubble, the drizzling rain cold on his face when they stepped onto the sidewalk. She linked her arm through his when they turned the corner toward his workshop, saying she wanted to see all the machines he’d fixed over the years, the ones he’d never showed anyone else. He didn’t hesitate to unlock the front door, holding it open for her to step inside first.
