Roland Voss is 59, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of the back of his dented 1992 Ford Econoline van, and has not voluntarily attended a “community social event” that didn’t involve power tools or a 12-pack of cheap beer in 8 years, ever since his wife Diane died of breast cancer. His biggest flaw? He holds grudges so hard his jaw aches half the time. For the last month, that grudge has been fixed entirely on Maren Hale, the 42-year-old city council rep who voted to double the weekend farmers market vendor fees, the same market where Roland sets up shop every Saturday to sell finished machines and do on-site repairs. He’d written three angry emails, left two profane voicemails, and sworn he’d never so much as say hello to her if she stepped within 10 feet of his van.
Mid-July, the air smells like pine and grilled onions from the taco truck two stalls over, the heat thick enough to make his shirt stick to his back by 10 a.m. He’s bent over a 1950s Remington, tweaking a stuck typebar, when a shadow falls across his workbench. He looks up, and there she is. Maren’s leaning against the side of his van, one boot propped on the lower edge of the bumper, close enough he can smell the lavender sunscreen she’s wearing and the cherry limeade sweating through the paper cup in her hand. She’s wearing cut-off denim shorts and a faded Fleetwood Mac tee, and he spots a tiny, inked typewriter on her left forearm before he yanks his gaze away, jaw set.
She holds up a beat-up canvas tote. “My mom’s old Royal. Jammed solid. I heard you’re the only guy within 100 miles who can fix one without charging more than the thing’s worth.” Her voice is rough, like she smokes a pack a day or yells at city council meetings for fun, both of which track with what he’d assumed about her. He almost tells her to get lost, but she holds out the limeade first, passing it to him to hold while she hefts the typewriter out of the bag. Their fingers brush when he takes the cup, her skin cool and damp from the condensation, and he fumbles a little, almost spilling it down his front.
He sets the Royal on the workbench, sits on his folding stool, and she kneels next to him instead of stepping back like most people do. Her knee brushes his thigh every time she shifts to get a better look, warm through the thin fabric of his work pants, and he has to focus twice as hard on the jammed carriage to keep from staring at the way the sun hits the blonde streaks in her dark hair. She admits she voted for the fee hike, but the extra money went to adding free water stations and shaded canopy covers for all the permanent vendors, not the city’s general fund like he’d assumed. “I saw you last week, you didn’t have any water, were drinking out of a warm soda can by 2 p.m.” She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Figured you’d rather yell at me first before I explained.”
He works in silence for 10 minutes, the only sounds the clink of his screwdriver, the distant chatter of market goers, and her soft hum along to the country song playing from the taco truck’s speakers. He pops the carriage free, taps the return lever, and it dings sharp and clear, perfect. She laughs, loud and bright, and leans in to hug him before he can process what’s happening. Her chest presses against his shoulder, her hair falls across his neck, and he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make a gruff joke about personal space, just freezes for half a second before he rests one hand light on her back.
She pulls back, grinning, and scribbles her number on a napkin from the taco truck, tucks it into the pocket of his work shirt before he can protest. “I’m done with council rounds in an hour. Come get tacos with me. I’ll even buy you a cold beer, make up for all the angry voicemails you left me.” She grabs the Royal, tucks it back into her tote, and walks off before he can answer, her flip flops slapping against the hot asphalt.
He stares after her for a full minute, then pulls the napkin out of his pocket, runs his thumb over the smudged ink of her phone number. He pulls a cold bottle of water from the cooler under his workbench, twists the cap off, and takes a long sip, the edge of his mouth twitching up into a smile he hasn’t felt in years. He sets the napkin back in his pocket, leans against the van’s warm metal siding, and flags her down to yell that he wants extra cilantro on his taco.
