Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living repairing antique typewriters out of a converted two-car garage behind his small river town Ohio home. He’s lived by the same rigid schedule for eight years, ever since his wife left him for a pharmaceutical rep who drove a BMW with heated seats: up at 6, feed his tabby Mabel, work until 5, eat a frozen burrito for dinner, watch three innings of whatever minor league baseball game is on TV, bed by 10. He avoids unnecessary interactions like they’re rusted typewriter keys stuck solid, and he’s actively dodged his new next-door neighbor Lila since she moved in three months prior. She’s 12 years younger, loud, laughs so hard her whole body shakes, and when he’d helped her carry a couch into her place on moving day, the smell of her coconut shampoo had stuck to his flannel for three days, and he’d felt stupidly flustered for hours after.
“Relax, Manny, I’m not gonna sue you for assault,” she says, wiping a stray strand of sun-bleached brown hair off her sunburned nose. She’s wearing cutoff denim shorts and scuffed white Converse, no socks, and there’s a streak of blue cotton candy on her left wrist. She buys him a cup of pink lemonade to make up for the one he spilled when they collided, and when he tries to make an excuse to leave, she arches an eyebrow and teases him that she knows he eats frozen bean and cheese burritos for dinner every night, because she can see his microwave glowing through his kitchen window when she takes her rescue pit bull out for last call. He’s so embarrassed he snorts lemonade out his nose, and before he knows what’s happening, he’s walking the fair with her, the typewriter crate still tucked under his arm.
The sky opens up without warning, fat warm summer raindrops pouring down so hard the sidewalk steams, and everyone runs for cover. They end up squeezed under the narrow awning of the closed downtown laundromat, so close their chests are almost touching, rain dripping off the edge of the awning onto the back of Manny’s neck. Lila looks up at him, her eyelashes clumped with rain, and says she’s been wanting to kiss him since the day he stopped to fix her fence when he saw her struggling to hammer a post in by herself. He hesitates for half a second, all the stupid rules he’s built for himself the last eight years bouncing around his head, then he leans down and kisses her. Her hands tangle in the back of his curly hair, the typewriter crate digging into his side where he’s still holding it, and he doesn’t care if the whole town sees them, doesn’t care if his schedule is ruined for the night, doesn’t care about any of the stupid barriers he’s put up.
The rain lets up 10 minutes later, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds and painting a faint rainbow over the river. They walk back to their houses side by side, their sneakers squelching in the puddles, and Lila invites him over for dinner, says she’s making arroz con pollo and has a cold six pack of Modelo in her fridge. He agrees without thinking. They stop at his front porch first, he sets the typewriter crate down on the top step, and she reaches up to wipe a smudge of rain and dirt off his cheek. He doesn’t even bother to put the typewriter inside or pop in to check on Mabel before following her across the lawn, the weight of eight years of self-imposed loneliness lifting off his shoulders with every step.
