Dale Hogarth is 61, spent 29 years restoring vintage typewriters out of a cinder block shop off the main drag in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, closed up his storefront after his wife Carol died in 2015, only takes on rare custom jobs from the garage attached to his 1950s ranch now. His biggest flaw? He’s spent the last 8 years turning down every social invite that doesn’t involve his adult kids or his weekly fishing trip with his old high school buddy, convinced there’s no point in making new connections when the best one he ever had got taken too soon. He’s only at the downtown pub’s Tuesday trivia night because his 26-year-old granddaughter begged him to fill in for her roommate who came down with strep, and he can never say no to that kid.
The bar smells like fried pickles and cheap bourbon, the jukebox in the corner blasts 1980s country low enough that it doesn’t drown out the teams yelling answers over each other. Dale’s team is trailing by three points going into the final round, and he’s half paying attention, half scrolling through photos of his new beehives on his beat-up flip phone, when he feels a pair of eyes on him. He looks up, and there’s a woman on the opposing team, leaning against the edge of their table, staring right at him. She’s maybe 58, has streaks of silver in her dark curly hair pulled back in a messy bun, wears a faded 1994 Lollapalooza tee under a flannel, a smudge of blue ink on the side of her left wrist. She grins when he catches her, doesn’t look away, lifts her beer in a tiny toast. Dale feels his ears go pink, nods back, looks down at his phone like it has the most interesting text in the world on the screen.
The final trivia question pops up on the projector: “What 1972 typewriter model was the first to feature a full plastic body and interchangeable keycaps, sold exclusively at Sears for 12 years?” Dale snorts before he can stop himself, says the answer out loud before his granddaughter can even reach for her phone. The woman from the other team leans over the folding table between their groups, elbows brushing his forearm when she points at him, calls out that her team had that answer too, no cheating. Her arm is warm where it touches his, he smells lavender hand cream and burnt sugar from the churro she’s holding in her other hand, and when she holds eye contact with him for three full seconds while she argues with the trivia host, Dale feels a jolt in his chest he hasn’t felt since he was 19 and asked Carol out to the drive-in. He’s equal parts horrified and giddy, feels stupid for even reacting this way, tells himself he’s too old for this, that he’s being disrespectful to Carol’s memory for even noticing another woman’s laugh sounds that good.
Trivia ends, her team wins by one point, she comes over to his table after, holds out her hand to shake, says her name is Maeve, she’s a part-time children’s librarian, collects vintage typewriter poetry chapbooks, recognized the ink stain on his work jeans the second he walked in, knew he had to be the guy she’d heard about from the local antique shop that fixes old machines for her. He shakes her hand, her palm is calloused at the fingertips from turning book pages and typing on her own collection, he can’t stop smiling even when he tries to play it cool.
They head outside at the same time, it’s pouring rain, the awning over the bar door is only big enough for two people, so they stand shoulder to shoulder, six inches between them, he can feel the heat off her shoulder through his flannel, listens to her rant about the library board trying to cut the after school art program she runs. He fumbles with his flip phone trying to pull up his Uber app, can’t get the screen to respond, she laughs, leans in closer, reaches over to tap the right button for him, her fingers brushing his knuckles for just a second. He feels that same jolt again, this time he doesn’t fight it.
Her ride pulls up first, she pauses with her hand on the car door handle, digs a crumpled napkin out of her jeans pocket, scribbles her phone number on it with that same blue ink she has smudged on her wrist, presses it into his palm, her thumb lingering on the back of his hand for two beats. “I have a 1951 Royal Quiet De Luxe that sticks on the ‘e’ key,” she says, grinning, rain dripping off the edge of her bun onto her collar. “If you’re not busy next Saturday, I’ll buy you a slice of that peach pie they serve behind the bar, and you can take a look at it. No charge for the advice, unless you want to stay for dinner after.”
Dale nods before she even finishes talking, tucks the napkin into the breast pocket of his flannel, says he’ll be there at 2, sharp. She waves as she climbs into the Uber, pulls the door shut, and he watches the car pull away down the rain-slicked street, the napkin crinkling against his chest when he breathes. His Uber pulls up 30 seconds later, he climbs in, pulls the napkin out of his pocket to add her number to his flip phone, his thumb only shakes a little when he types out M-A-E-V-E next to the 10 digits.
