Moe Rogan, 62, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of the two-car garage attached to his bungalow in west Eugene. He’d rather spend 8 hours prying a rusted shift key free than schlep his inventory to the annual summer craft fair, but he moves three times as many units there as he does on Etsy, so he shows up at 7 a.m. sweltering under the weight of a crate full of 1940s Smith Coronas, sleeves cut off his faded Ducks hoodie, a lukewarm seltzer tucked in his back pocket. He’s been divorced 12 years, hasn’t so much as asked a woman out for coffee in 10, after a disastrous date with a retired librarian who spent the entire meal complaining about his habit of leaving half-drunk cups of coffee on every flat surface in his house. His daughter teases him about being a hermit, says he’d marry a Royal Quiet De Luxe if he could.
By 3 p.m. the sun is baking the asphalt so hard he can see heat waves rippling off the parking lot, the air thick with the smell of fried Oreos and citronella candles. He’s wiping sweat off his brow when she steps up to the booth, cutoff denim shorts, a faded Patsy Cline tee, sun streaks in her dark brown hair, a smattering of freckles across her nose. She says she’s looking for a 1950s Royal Quiet De Luxe, the exact model he’d stashed under the table for a regular who’d promised to pick it up two weeks prior and never showed. She leans in to squint at the serial number on the back when he pulls it out, her forearm brushing his, the scent of lavender and cedar hitting him so sharp he almost forgets what he’s saying. He’s always told himself even noticing a woman 18 years younger than him makes him a walking, cringey cliche, the kind of guy his daughter rants about on TikTok, so he steps back half a foot, clears his throat, and quotes her 20% over his usual asking price, fully expecting her to walk away.
She doesn’t. She laughs, the sound crinkling the corners of her hazel eyes, and says she knows what that model goes for, but she’ll pay it if he tells her the full story of how he restored it. She sits on the edge of his folding chair while he talks, her shoulder pressing to his when she leans in to run a finger over the polished chrome trim, and he doesn’t move. She tells him her dad had the exact same typewriter, he’d written all his college poetry on it before he lost everything in a house fire last winter, she’s been looking for one for six months. He can hear the tremor in her voice when she runs a test line across a sheet of scrap paper, the typewriter dinging perfectly at the end of the line, and he cuts the price in half before he even thinks about it. She makes eye contact for three full beats when she hands him the cash, her fingers brushing his palm for so long he feels the tingle all the way up his arm.
The fair closes at 6, he’s packing up his remaining inventory when she walks back over, holding two cold IPAs she grabbed from the beer tent. She says she’s in town from Boise helping her cousin run the fair, runs a small independent poetry bookstore there, hasn’t had a decent conversation with anyone all weekend. He almost makes up an excuse about having to get home to feed his 16-year-old tabby, almost says he’s too tired, but the way she’s tilting her head at him, sun hitting the gold hoop in her left ear, makes him say yes instead. They walk to the dive bar three blocks over, sit in a sticky vinyl booth in the back, Johnny Cash playing low on the jukebox. She tells him she’s been single four years, got sick of dating guys her age who only wanted to talk about their fantasy football leagues and how much they hated their ex wives. He admits he’s avoided dating for a decade because he thought he was too set in his ways, too boring, too old to be anything but a disappointment to anyone who wasn’t as obsessed with typewriters as he was.
She reaches across the table, rests her hand on top of his, her palm warm and calloused from turning book pages all day, and says he’s the least boring person she’s met all year. They finish their beers as the sun dips below the roof of the building across the street, the sky turning soft pink and tangerine. He walks her to his beat up 2008 Tacoma, she leans in before he can open the passenger door, kisses him slow, tastes like IPA and cherry lip balm. He doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t wonder what his daughter would say, doesn’t worry about being a cliche. He unlocks the door, holds it open for her, and when she asks if he wants to come back to her Airbnb to see the handbound poetry collection she’s been working on for two years, he climbs into the driver’s seat right after her.
