Roland Voss, 61, made his living restoring antique typewriters for collectors across the country, a job that required such steady hands and obsessive attention to detail he’d ruined three pairs of reading glasses in the last year alone. His biggest flaw, as his late wife Linda used to tease him, was that he couldn’t tolerate even the smallest, most meaningless mess: a crumpled receipt in his truck cupholder, a smudge on his workbench, a lime wedge wedged tight in the neck of his ice-cold PBR, the one he’d just ordered after picking up wildflower honey and heirloom tomatoes at the Asheville farmers market next door.
He’d been picking at the lime with a plastic straw for two full minutes when the woman next to him snort-laughed, low and rough around the edges like she smoked a pack a week and only on her back porch with a glass of sweet tea. He’d noticed her out of the corner of his eye ten minutes prior, silver hoops catching the neon Pabst sign glow, a faded Dolly Parton tour t-shirt stretched across her shoulders, a tiny comma tattoo inked black on her left wrist. “You’re never gonna get it out that way,” she said, nodding at the bottle, her knee brushing his under the sticky, peanut-shell dusted bar top before she pulled back like she’d touched a hot stove.
Roland’s first instinct was to huff, tell her he had it handled, that he spent his days realigning 100-year-old metal keys smaller than her thumbnail, so a stupid lime was nothing. Instead, he found himself passing the bottle over, his knuckle brushing hers when she took it. She smelled like jasmine lotion and cut grass, the same scent Linda used to wear when she worked in her backyard garden. He tensed up, guilt coiling tight in his chest, ready to grab the bottle back and leave before he did something stupid, like admit he liked the way she leaned in a little closer when she focused, her hair falling forward to cover half her face.
She tapped the bottom of the bottle three times sharp, twisted the neck between her fingers, and the lime popped right out, splattering a few drops of beer onto the front of her t-shirt. She wiped it off with a crumpled napkin, grinning, and handed the bottle back. “Maren,” she said, holding out her hand to shake. “Just moved here last month to work part-time at the downtown library. Got sick of Chicago winters.”
Roland shook her hand, his calloused work fingers wrapping around hers. He’d not held a woman’s hand that wasn’t a cashier or a distant relative in eight years, not since Linda died of ovarian cancer three days after their 28th wedding anniversary. He’d shut down her used bookstore a year later, packed all their photos into boxes in the attic, and only left his cottage three times a week: to get groceries, to drop off packages at the post office, and to get one beer at this bar every Saturday after the farmers market. He’d told himself over and over that anyone who tried to date after losing someone they loved that much was being selfish, that moving on was a betrayal.
“I fix old typewriters,” he said, surprising himself, nodding at the comma tattoo on her wrist. “Got a whole mason jar full of old comma keytops back at my workshop. 1920s Underwoods, 1950s Royals, every make you can think of.”
Maren’s eyes lit up, and she leaned in again, their shoulders pressing together this time, and she didn’t pull away. She told him she got the tattoo after her second husband filed for divorce, because she’d spent three years thinking her story was over after her first husband died in a construction accident, and she needed a reminder that pauses weren’t endings. Roland found himself leaning in too, listening, not checking his watch every five minutes like he usually did when someone talked to him for longer than 30 seconds. He bought her a shot of bourbon, she bought him a second beer, and they talked until thunder rumbled loud enough to rattle the bar windows, rain pouring down so hard the street outside turned into a shallow river.
He was half convinced he was dreaming, that the guilt would kick in any second and he’d run for the door, but it didn’t. It felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying around on his chest for eight years had lifted just a little, like Linda was laughing at him from somewhere, calling him an idiot for waiting so long to talk to someone.
When the rain slowed to a soft drizzle, Maren slung her canvas tote bag over her shoulder and said she lived three blocks away, if he wanted to walk her home, she had a batch of chocolate chip cookies cooling on her counter that were way too big for her to eat alone. Roland grabbed his paper grocery bag, held the bar door open for her, and stepped out into the warm, rain-scented air. She slipped her hand into his as they stepped off the curb, her fingers fitting between his like they’d been made to.
