Manny Ruiz, 67, retired antique typewriter restorer, leaned against the splintered cedar fence lining Astoria’s downtown block party, sun seeping through the frayed elbow of his gray flannel to warm the faded Royal typewriter tattoo on his forearm. He’d only shown up because Javi, the 16-year-old who mowed his lawn and dropped off his grocery orders every Sunday, had begged for three straight days, swearing the corner taco truck was serving al pastor marinated in pineapple and mesquite, better than any they’d had at the festival five years prior. Manny had eaten exactly two bites of his taco, swatted three mosquitos off his ankle, and already mapped his escape route back to his bungalow when a woman stepped up beside him, her shoulder brushing his bicep hard enough to make him fumble his paper plate.
She smelled like jasmine lotion and roasted citrus, silver streaks catching the golden hour light in her thick dark braid, constellation tattoos snaking up her wrist from the cuff of her faded Neil Young tee. She fumbled a plastic cup of horchata in her other hand, sloshing a few drops onto Manny’s scuffed work boot, and laughed when he glanced down, no embarrassment in the sound, just warm, crinkly-eyed amusement. “Sorry about that,” she said, holding his eye contact a beat longer than casual strangers did, not leaning back even though there was three feet of empty fence to her left. “I’m Lila. In town for a book binding pop up at the library. My depth perception goes to shit when I’m staring down a taco menu with three different salsa options.”
Manny grunted, wiped a spot of pineapple juice off his chin, and nodded at the typewriter pin stuck to his flannel lapel, the thing she’d clearly been staring at before she bumped him. “Fixed those for 32 years. Retired last year.” He didn’t usually offer up personal info to strangers, didn’t even talk to the hardware store cashier for more than 10 seconds most days, but something about the way she was leaning in, like she actually cared what he had to say, made the words come easier. He told her about his waterfront shop, about the piles of rusted Royal and Underwood machines he still had stacked in his garage, about Elaina, his wife of 34 years, who’d loved Neil Young and wrote bad poetry on her 1950s Quiet De Luxe until she died of ovarian cancer 8 years prior. The second he said her name, a familiar twist of guilt coiled in his gut, like he was betraying her just talking to another woman, just noticing the way Lila’s knee was pressed almost against his when they sat down on the curb to finish their tacos.
Lila didn’t push, didn’t offer empty condolences, just nodded and said her mom had passed from the same cancer 12 years prior, that grief didn’t have to be a lockbox you shut yourself in forever. The sun dipped below the Columbia River by then, pink and orange streaks painting the sky, the teens manning the speaker system switching from loud EDM to slow, twangy folk that hummed low in Manny’s bones. Lila reached over to pluck a piece of pineapple off the edge of his plate, her fingers brushing his knuckle, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, didn’t berate himself for the spark of something warm that zipped up his arm from the contact. She asked if she could see Elaina’s typewriter sometime, said she’d only ever gotten to work on a handful of Quiet De Luxes in her 18 years binding custom journals, and Manny hesitated for all of two seconds before he said yes.
He turned his head, their lips brushing soft and slow, no urgency, no pressure, and the tight knot of guilt in his chest loosened for the first time in 8 years, no fight left in it. He reached up, tucked a stray strand of braid behind her ear, and asked if she wanted to stay for the cold brew he’d brewed that morning, still fresh in the fridge.
