Roman Voss is 61, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a creaky downtown Asheville storefront, and hasn’t asked a woman out in 12 years. His biggest flaw is he’d rather sand down a stuck type bar for three hours than tell someone no, a trait his ex-wife cited repeatedly before she left him for a real estate agent who wore tailored slacks and never had ink under his fingernails. He sold the suburban ranch they’d raised two kids in, moved into the loft above his shop, and only leaves the space for supply runs and the weekly Tuesday bluegrass jam at The Rusty Tap, two blocks over.
He’s perched on a scuffed vinyl bar stool tuning his beat-up 1970s mandolin when she slides onto the stool next to him, her shoulder brushing his bicep hard enough that he fumbles his tuning peg. He smells cedar and lavender laundry detergent, catches the flash of a silver bear claw pendant against her faded forest service hoodie, and notices the calluses crisscrossing her fingertips when she lifts her bourbon to her lips. The bartender nods at him, slides his usual double bourbon across the bar, and she huffs a laugh when he pushes an extra paper coaster her way without thinking.
He learns her name is Mae, she’s 57, she just transferred back to the local Smoky Mountain ranger station after eight years in Wyoming, and she’s Earl Hargrove’s ex-wife. The name hits him like a splash of cold beer to the face. Earl is his most infuriating regular, the guy who drops off busted typewriters for repairs, complains about every line item on the bill, and calls Roman a “buttoned-up nerd with a screwdriver” every time he picks his order up. Earl had spent 20 minutes at the shop two weeks prior ranting about Mae, calling her selfish, saying she’d left him high and dry to “chase bears and sleep in dirt.”
He should edge away, make an excuse to move to the other end of the bar, avoid the drama he’s spent a decade running from. But she’s leaning in, close enough that her knee brushes his under the bar, telling him she left Earl because he’d hidden her job acceptance letter in his truck glove compartment for three weeks, told her a woman’s place was keeping his house clean and packing his lunch for his construction jobs. She holds his eye when she says it, no hesitation, no flicker of embarrassment, and he finds himself leaning in too, telling her about the time Earl brought in a 1950s Royal portable that had been run over by a lawnmower, demanded he fix it for 20 bucks, then threatened to leave a one-star review when he quoted him 120.
She laughs so hard she snorts, and her hand slaps his forearm, the calluses on her palm catching on the frayed cuff of his flannel shirt. He feels heat crawl up his neck, and he’s suddenly hyper aware of how loud the jam is, how the fiddle player is wailing a fast version of Foggy Mountain Breakdown, how the guy next to them is spilling beer on the bar, how he hasn’t felt this light in years.
The front door slams open. He glances over, and his stomach drops. It’s Earl, drunk, his construction vest still slung over one shoulder, scowling when he spots Mae next to him. He starts stomping across the bar, yelling her name, and Roman tenses, ready to step between them, but Mae puts a hand on his arm, firm, not to hold him back, to signal she’s got it.
She stands up, leans against the bar, and raises her voice just enough to cut through the noise, telling Earl if he takes one more step she’ll flag down the bouncer, who she went to high school with, and get him tossed out and banned for life. She says she owes him nothing, she left the house and the truck and all his stupid power tools when she moved out, and if he even breathes in her direction again she’ll file a restraining order for the time he keyed her car last year. Earl stares at her, blinks, mumbles something under his breath, and turns around and stumbles out the door.
The bar goes back to normal like nothing happened. Mae sits back down, takes a long sip of her bourbon, and smirks at him when he stares at her, wide-eyed. She says she’s been curious about him for months, saw his shop window when she was driving through town, loved the stack of vintage typewriters he put on display every Saturday. She asks if he wants to skip the rest of the jam, show her the shop.
He agrees before he can overthink it. They walk the two blocks in the crisp October air, their shoulders brushing every few steps, the sound of the bluegrass fading behind them. He unlocks the shop door, flicks on the warm string lights strung above the workbench, and she walks straight to the 1947 Smith Corona he just finished restoring for a couple’s wedding gift, running her finger over the glossy black casing, saying she had one exactly like that as a kid, wrote terrible poetry on it late at night when her parents were asleep.
He asks if she wants to go up to the loft for coffee, or another bourbon, he’s got a bottle of Maker’s Mark on the counter up there. She grins, tucks a strand of gray-streaked hair behind her ear, and says the bourbon sounds perfect. He fumbles for his loft keys in his jeans pocket, his knuckles brushing hers when she reaches out to take them from him to unlock the door herself.
