Sixty-seven year old Russell “Rusty” Pirelli has avoided the annual Alberta Street block party for 12 straight years, ever since his wife Elaine died and well-meaning neighbors kept hovering to ask if he was okay. The antique typewriter restorer only showed up this year because Mrs. Gonzalez next door dropped off three still-warm ricotta cannoli the night before, and he owed her the favor of a 20-minute appearance. He’s leaning against the splintered wooden side of the food table, work boots caked with the graphite dust he never fully scrubs off his garage floor, sipping lukewarm beer he doesn’t even like, planning to sneak out in 10 minutes tops.
He reaches for a plastic cup of peach iced tea to wash the beer taste out of his mouth, and another hand brushes his. Cool, calloused at the knuckle, a smudge of indigo ink streaked across the back right above a tiny silver quill tattoo. He yanks his hand back like he touched a hot soldering iron, looks up, and recognizes her immediately. Marisol Cruz, 62, owner of the vintage bookstore three blocks from his shop, ex-wife of Jake Carter, the guy who stole his spot on the high school baseball team and spent every senior year lunch period taunting him about his “stupid nerd hobby” of fixing old typewriters. He hasn’t spoken to her since 1978, when he saw her at a grocery store and ducked down an aisle to avoid her, convinced she was just as stuck up as her then-husband.
She doesn’t step back. She’s standing so close he can smell jasmine perfume and the dry, sweet scent of old paper clinging to her linen button-down, sun streaking the gray strands in her dark braid, a smudge of the same indigo ink on her cheekbone. She holds his gaze for two full beats longer than polite, grinning, and nods at the ink smudge on his own wrist, left there earlier that day when he was prying a stuck key out of a 1952 Royal KMM for a college student writing her thesis. “You’re the typewriter guy, right? Rusty? I’ve had my grandmother’s Underwood sitting in my back storage room for three years, too scared to bring it to anyone who might break it worse.”
His first instinct is to make an excuse, say he’s too busy, say he doesn’t take new clients, say he has to get home to feed a cat he doesn’t even own. He’s spent 12 years walling himself off from anything that doesn’t involve typewriters, jazz records, and the same black coffee he brews at 6 a.m. sharp every morning. The idea of talking to anyone for more than five minutes, let alone the ex-wife of the guy he hated most as a kid, makes his chest tight, half guilt for even thinking about replacing Elaine, half stupid schoolboy flutter he hasn’t felt since he was 17. But then she laughs, a low, rough sound, when a kid runs past them chasing a golden retriever, splashing both of them with sprinkler water, and she doesn’t even wipe the drops off her arm. “Jake always said you were too much of a hermit to talk to anyone. Guess he was wrong about more things than just whether a vinyl record sounds better than a Spotify playlist.”
He snorts before he can stop himself. He’d spent three hours arguing with Jake at a 1998 neighborhood yard sale about that exact thing, almost got kicked out by the host for yelling about analog warmth. “He was an idiot about most things. Still is, from what I hear.” He picks up the iced tea, hands it to her first, then grabs one for himself. Ice clinks against the plastic, sweet, syrupy steam curling up to tickle his nose. She leans in a little, her shoulder brushing his bicep, when she points at the tiny enamel typewriter pin he has pinned to his work jacket, the one Elaine gave him for their 25th anniversary. “I saw that in your shop window once. Nice. I have a matching book pin somewhere, got it the same year that Underwood was made, 1947.”
She tilts her head, nods toward the end of the block, where her bookstore’s neon “OPEN” sign is still glowing even though it’s 7 p.m. “Wanna come see the Underwood? I’ve got a bottle of bourbon in the desk, better than that swill you were drinking earlier. We can talk about the exhibit, too. I’ve got a stack of old 1940s poetry books that would look perfect next to those typewriters.” He hesitates for half a second, the old guilt flaring again, the voice in his head saying he doesn’t deserve this, that he should go home to his empty house and his old records. But then she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her thumb brushing her lower lip, and he knows he’s not going home yet.
He nods. She grins, turns to walk, and her hand brushes his again, this time not by accident, her fingers lacing through his for half a step before she pulls away, like she’s testing the water. The asphalt is still warm under his boots, the smell of grilled corn and jasmine mixing in the air. They walk the three blocks to her store in comfortable silence, no awkward small talk, just the sound of crickets starting to chirp in the planter boxes along the sidewalk. She pulls her keys out of her bag, unlocks the front door, and the little brass bell above the frame jingles, soft and familiar. She steps inside, turns to face him, and brushes a stray maple leaf off the shoulder of his jacket, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a beat. “I’m really glad you didn’t sneak out early like you usually do. Mrs. Gonzalez told me she bribed you with cannoli. Smart woman.”
He sets the half-empty cup of iced tea on the concrete step outside, follows her into the store, the smell of leather bindings and old paper wrapping around him like a long-forgotten hug.
