Moe Rinaldi, 61, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a 300-square-foot shop tucked between a tattoo parlor and a laundromat in West Asheville. He’s got calluses thick as coins on the pads of his index and middle fingers, a permanent smudge of graphite somewhere on his face most days, and a flaw he’s carried like a lead weight for 12 years: after his wife left him for a tech bro 14 years his junior, he decided he was done with romance entirely, convinced any flicker of attention from someone younger was either a prank or a pity play, that acting on it would make him the sad old creep every kid side-eyes at the grocery store. He spends most nights alone with his senior tabby Mabel, eating frozen meatloaf and listening to old Merle Haggard records, and he’d convinced himself that was enough.
The fall block party was the last place he wanted to be, but the neighborhood association begged him to set up a booth, said his shop was a local landmark. He hauled three restored Smith Coronas and a box of custom typewriter keychains to his spot at 10 a.m., and spent the first four hours making small talk with retirees who remembered using typewriters in high school, and teens who thought the clack of the keys was “aesthetic.” The air smelled like fried green tomatoes, smoked sausage, and spiced apple cider, kids screamed as they chased each other through piles of raked maple leaves, and the local bluegrass band played off-key covers of Johnny Cash songs off to the side. He was counting down the minutes until he could pack up and go home when she walked up.
He recognized the nose scar first, the thin little slash above her left nostril from when she’d crashed her bike outside his shop when she was 12. She was 38 now, she told him, Lila Carter, Tom Carter’s daughter, just moved back to town to open a small poetry press. He remembered her at 16, braces on her teeth, neon green hair, begging him to let her use his 1950s Royal to print her DIY zine about local punk bands. Now she had soft auburn hair streaked with silver at the temples, a silver stud in her nose, chipped indigo nail polish that matched the custom ink ribbons he sold for vintage portables, and a flannel shirt tied around her waist that looked like it might’ve been her dad’s old one. She leaned in over the booth when he told her he’d fixed her dad’s old Underwood six months back, her elbow brushing his forearm when she reached out to tap the space bar of the display typewriter, and he caught a whiff of lavender and campfire smoke on her sweatshirt.
He stumbled over his words at first, half-convinced he was misreading the way she held eye contact, the way she laughed too loud at his bad joke about typewriter ribbon stains being a badge of honor. When he pulled the tiny escapement part he kept on his keychain to show her how the typewriter’s timing worked, she leaned in so close her hair brushed his cheek, and he froze, every alarm in his head blaring that this was wrong, that he was old enough to be her father, that every neighbor within 10 feet was watching them and judging him. He almost pulled away, almost made an excuse about needing to restock his display, until she said she’d followed his shop’s Instagram for three years, that she’d bought three of his restored typewriters for her press before she even moved back to town, that she’d been looking forward to meeting him again for months.
She didn’t flinch when his knuckle brushed her wrist when he handed her a custom keychain with a raised ‘L’ on it, just held it for a beat longer than necessary, running her thumb over the smooth metal edge. When the block party started wrapping up at 6, the sun dipping low enough to paint the sky pink and tangerine over the French Broad River, she asked him if he wanted to walk down to the old wooden dock with her, said she wanted to talk to him about a bulk order for her press, but he could hear the nervous lilt in her voice, could tell it wasn’t just work. He hesitated for three full seconds, almost making an excuse about Mabel waiting for her evening wet food, almost talking himself out of it like he’d talked himself out of every good thing that’d crossed his path in the last decade. Then he saw her bite her lower lip, shifting her weight like she was scared he’d say no, and he nodded.
The leaves crunched under their work boots as they walked the half mile to the river, the sound of the bluegrass band fading behind them, the air cold enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled. When they sat down on the weathered dock, their shoulders pressed together so tight he could feel the heat of her through his Carhartt jacket, she turned to him and said she’d had a crush on him since she was 17, that she’d thought he was the coolest guy in town because he was the only adult who’d ever listened to her ramble about her zines without telling her it was a waste of time. All the guilt and self-loathing he’d been carrying melted a little, then, the voice in his head screaming he was a creep going quiet for the first time in years. He realized she wasn’t a kid anymore, that she was a grown woman who knew exactly what she wanted, that he wasn’t taking advantage of anything.
He reached up, brushed a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear, his calloused thumb brushing the soft skin of her cheek, and she leaned into the touch like she’d been waiting for it. She kissed him slow then, tasting like hard cider and cinnamon, the distant sound of a dog barking from the neighborhood fading to background noise. He didn’t care if any of the neighbors saw them, didn’t care if people talked, didn’t care about any of the stupid rules he’d made for himself to keep himself safe. When she pulled back a half inch to grin at him, he could see the same spark of mischief he remembered from her teen years, glowing brighter now that she was all grown up.
