Moe Alvarez, 59, has made a full-time side gig out of vintage typewriter repair since retiring from his 32-year run as an Akron, Ohio, postal route supervisor three years prior. His biggest flaw, as his granddaughter Lila never stops reminding him, is that he’ll refuse a good time out of pure stubbornness before he even gives it a chance. He’s avoided all neighborhood events since his ex-wife left him 12 years ago for a line dancing instructor she met at the county fair, convinced every group gathering is just a trap for awkward small talk and forced cheer. The only reason he’s at the August block party at all is because Lila begged him to come support her face painting booth, promising she’d save him the last chocolate chip cookie from her mom’s baking tray if he showed up.
He’s leaning against an oak tree at the edge of the crowd, sipping warm root beer from a dented can, when the smell hits him: baked peaches, brown sugar, and cinnamon, sharp enough to cut through the scent of cut grass and charcoal grill smoke. He follows the smell to the folding table stacked with aluminum pie tins, and spots Lena Marlow, his next door neighbor of three months, who he’s only ever exchanged stiff, two-second waves with before ducking back inside his house. She’s got a streak of flour across her left cheek, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid that’s slipping down her shoulder, and a silver hoop earring that catches the late afternoon sun every time she laughs. He’d spent the last two months kicking himself every time he saw her hauling grocery bags up her steps, hating the stupid, fluttery pull in his chest he thought he’d outgrown decades ago, torn between wanting to offer to help and wanting to run inside and lock the door before she noticed him staring.
She looks up before he can slip away, and waves him over with a flour-dusted hand. He hesitates for three full seconds, then shuffles over, the smudge of permanent typewriter ink on his left wrist burning like a secret. She says she’s been meaning to knock on his door for weeks, ever since she saw him carrying a 1950s Royal Quiet De Luxe into his garage back in June. Her mom left her an identical model when she passed last spring, she says, and the shift key is stuck, she can’t find anyone who knows how to fix it without charging her more than the typewriter is worth. He opens his mouth to say he can take a look, no charge, when a pack of yelling teens dart between the tables, slamming into his shoulder hard enough to make him stumble forward. His open palm brushes the bare skin of her forearm, warm, soft, dotted with a smattering of freckles, and he freezes, his face going hot enough to match the faded red of his old USPS work shirt. She doesn’t pull away, just grins, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “Easy there,” she says, her voice low enough only he can hear it. “Don’t go taking out my entire pie stock before I raise enough money for the library’s new kids’ section.”
She hands him a free slice of peach pie on a crumpled paper plate, the crust still flaking, the filling oozing over the edge. He takes a bite, and it’s better than any food he’s had in years, sweet and bright with a little tang of lemon, the crust buttery enough to melt on his tongue. They stand there for 45 minutes, close enough that their elbows brush every time one of them shifts their weight, the 80s rock playing from a speaker on someone’s porch fading into background noise. She laughs so hard at his story about the time a customer tried to mail a live goldfish in a regular manila envelope that she snorts, and he doesn’t even feel stupid for telling it. He forgets all about his rule against getting too close to anyone, forgets he spent the drive over complaining to Lila that the party was going to be a waste of time. All he can focus on is the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear every time she gets excited, the faint smell of coconut lotion mixed with peach that lingers around her, the way she holds eye contact for a beat longer than is strictly polite, like she’s actually listening to every word he says.
When a woman walks up to buy the last pie, Lena grabs a pen from her apron pocket, scribbles her cell number on the back of a blank pie order slip, and presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering against his for a full two seconds before she pulls away. “Text me whenever you’re free to look at that typewriter,” she says, grinning. “I’ll bring over a whole pie as payment. Extra crust, just how you seem to like it.” He tucks the slip into the breast pocket of his work shirt, feels the crinkle of the paper against his chest, and nods, unable to stop himself from smiling back.
Lila runs over a minute later, her face smudged with blue face paint, and teases him for talking to the “pretty pie lady” for so long, asking if he still wants that unicorn face paint she promised him earlier. He shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on Lena, who’s now stacking empty pie tins into a plastic bin, her hoop earring glinting in the golden light as she glances over at him and winks.
