Elio Rios, 53, made his living restoring antique typewriters out of a 300-square-foot shop in downtown Asheville, specializing in mid-century portables people hauled in after digging them out of their parents’ attics, his fingers perpetually stained black with ribbon ink and brass polish. He’d lived alone for eight years, ever since his wife left for a commercial real estate broker in Charlotte, and had long since stopped accepting invitations to neighborhood events. The only reason he showed up to the July block party was his 16-year-old part-time helper, Javi, had begged for three weeks straight, swearing the Texas-style brisket food truck parked at the end of the block was worth the torture of small talk.
He showed up in faded Carhartt overalls, a hole frayed at the left knee, and planted himself at the edge of the crowd, a can of cheap lager in a faded John Deere koozie in one hand, a paper plate stacked with brisket and dill pickles in the other. He avoided eye contact with everyone who looked like they might ask why he was still single, why he never brought anyone around, why he spent 12 hours a day hunched over broken machines instead of dating. The air was thick with humidity, the smell of charcoal and sugar from the cotton candy stand sticking to the back of his throat, and he was already mentally mapping his exit route when she crashed into him.
She was carrying a tray of lavender lemonade shots, tripped over a kid’s discarded neon bike tire, and slammed full force into his chest, half the tray tipping down the front of his overalls. The cold liquid seeped through the thick cotton, hitting the warm skin of his chest, and he flinched, his beer sloshing over the edge of the can onto her wrist. She was the woman who’d moved into the herbal apothecary two doors down three months prior, the one he’d only ever waved at through his shop window, too skittish to introduce himself. She rambled apologies, dabbing at the wet spot on his overalls with a crumpled linen napkin pulled from her jeans pocket, her calloused fingers brushing his forearm again and again. He could smell jasmine and cedar on her, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes after a walk in the mountains after rain, and he forgot how to speak for three full seconds.
She insisted on buying him another beer, dragging him over to a half-empty picnic table tucked under a string of warm fairy lights, away from the noise of the crowd. They talked first about the lemonade, then about the brisket, then she mentioned she had a beat-up 1962 Royal typewriter she’d picked up at a thrift store, that it jammed every third line and she’d been too intimidated to bring it into his shop. He’d spent the last eight years shutting every possible connection out, convinced any new relationship would end the same way his marriage did, that letting someone in was just asking for disappointment. But he couldn’t look away from her eyes, the way she tucked a strand of auburn hair streaked with silver behind her ear when she laughed, the way her knee brushed his under the table every time she leaned in to ask a question about typewriter maintenance. The familiar twist of disgust at the thought of being vulnerable warred with the low, warm hum of desire in his gut, and for the first time in years, he didn’t immediately default to running.
They left the party 20 minutes later, walking down the sidewalk together, the asphalt still warm under his scuffed work boots, crickets chirping in the hedges that lined the street. She stopped outside the apothecary, turned to him, and asked if he wanted to come up to her apartment above the shop, look at her broken Royal, and split a bottle of orange wine she’d been saving for a good occasion. He didn’t make up an excuse about having work early, didn’t say he was tired, didn’t run. He nodded, lacing his fingers through hers, and followed her up the creaky wooden steps as the distant sound of the band faded behind them.
