Moe Sorenson, 61, makes his living restoring vintage typewriters out of a 300-square-foot shop tucked between a tattoo parlor and a laundromat in west Asheville. He’s spent the eight years since his wife died turning down every blind date, every casual dinner invite from friends who “know someone perfect for you,” every hint of romantic interest from regular customers, convinced that opening that door again would feel like betraying the 32 years he had with Judy. His biggest flaw? He lies to himself constantly about being perfectly happy alone, even when he eats cold meatloaf for dinner three nights in a row and falls asleep on the couch watching old westerns he’s already seen a dozen times.
He only showed up to the neighborhood block party because his new next-door neighbor, Lila, had dropped off a pothos in a chipped ceramic pot on his porch three days prior, a housewarming gift from her, he’d realized, even though he’d lived in the house for 27 years. He’d felt guilty enough avoiding her the last two times she waved from her driveway that he’d grabbed a Modelo from the cooler by the taco truck and parked himself against a dented street sign, planning to stay 20 minutes max before slipping back home to his workbench, where the only noise was the soft click of typewriter keys and the hum of his space heater.
The first sign his plan was going off the rails was when she bumped into him from behind, half her frozen margarita sloshing over the rim of the neon plastic cup and soaking the left cuff of his faded gray flannel. She yelped an apology, stepping in so close he could smell coconut sunscreen and lime on her skin, the faint tang of chili powder on her breath from the al pastor taco she’d just finished. The distant din of kids chasing each other with water guns and the taco truck’s generator faded a little when she grabbed a crumpled napkin from her back pocket and dabbed at the wet spot, her knuckles brushing the soft silver hair on his forearm so lightly he almost thought he imagined it. He froze, half ready to step back, half ready to lean into the contact, disgusted with himself for feeling flustered like a 16-year-old at a sock hop, like he didn’t know how to talk to a woman who wasn’t dropping off a broken typewriter and a check.
She didn’t step back when she was done dabbing. She stayed right there, shoulder almost pressed to his, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners when she asked him what he did for work, and when he said he fixed typewriters she lit up, said she’d picked up a beat up 1956 Royal Quiet De Luxe at a yard sale back in Charlotte before she moved, had it in the back of her pickup truck right now, didn’t know if it was salvageable. He heard himself offer to look at it that night, before he could talk himself out of it, even though he never let people come over to his house after 7 PM, even though his kitchen table was still covered with half-restored typewriter parts from a job he was working on for a college professor in Vermont.
The walk back to their houses took two minutes, the air still warm enough that he didn’t miss his flannel when he slung it over his shoulder, crickets chirping in the oak trees lining the sidewalk. She hauled the heavy leather typewriter case up his porch steps, her faded band tee riding up a little to show a sliver of tanned skin at her lower back, and he had to look away before he stared like a creep. She set the case on his kitchen table, flipped the brass latches open, and the typewriter was perfect, almost no rust, just a dried out ribbon and a stuck shift key. He leaned in to point out the serial number etched into the metal bottom, his arm brushing hers, and when he turned his head to explain what needed fixing, she was already leaning in, her lips on his, soft and salty from margarita rim salt.
He didn’t pull away. He didn’t make an excuse, didn’t tell her he wasn’t ready, didn’t overthink the guilt he’d spent eight years carrying around every time he even thought about being interested in someone else. He kissed her back, slow, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, her wavy brown hair soft under his fingers, and when they pulled apart she was laughing a little, said she’d been wanting to do that since he’d held the moving truck door open for her three days earlier, that she’d noticed him avoiding her and figured she’d have to make the first move.
He sat down at the kitchen table, popped the metal hood of the typewriter, and dropped a new black ribbon he had tucked in a junk drawer into the spools. He typed her name, Lila, in crisp, even black ink on a scrap of yellow legal pad, the keys clicking loud and smooth in the quiet of his kitchen, and slid the paper across the table to her. The ink was still glistening a little when she picked it up, grinning so wide the dimples in her cheeks showed.
