Elias Voss is 59, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a 200-square foot shop in Asheville’s River Arts District, and hasn’t initiated a casual conversation with a stranger in 12 years, not since his wife packed her suitcase and left him for a SaaS startup founder 18 years her junior. He’s got a scar across his right knuckle from prying a rusted 1940s Underwood casing open last winter, hates craft beer, and sits in the same vinyl booth at the dive bar two blocks from his shop every Tuesday and Thursday, orders bourbon on the rocks, no water, no garnish, and leaves exactly one dollar on the table as a tip no matter the tab. He only agreed to set up a display of his restored pieces at the neighborhood summer block party because the bar’s owner, a guy he’s known since high school, begged him, said the local crowd would eat it up, maybe bring him more work.
The humidity hangs thick enough to sip by mid-afternoon, the air heavy with the smell of fried oreos from the food truck at the end of the block and the twang of a bluegrass band playing on the temporary stage 20 feet from his folding table. He’s half considering packing up early when Marisol steps up to his display, the woman who runs the used bookstore next door to his shop. He’s exchanged exactly three sentences with her in the two years she’s been there, all of them about the leaky gutter that runs between their two storefronts. She’s wearing a yellow sundress dotted with white daisies, copper highlights catching the sun when she leans over the table, and he’s suddenly hyper aware of the sweat beading at the back of his neck under his faded flannel shirt.
She reaches for the 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe sitting at the front of the table, the one he spent three months stripping rust off of, replacing the platen, reconditioning the keys, and their hands brush when he moves to stop her, old habit, his rule no one touches the pieces without asking first. Her skin is cool, smells like lavender and old paper, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, face flushing. She doesn’t pull away, just lifts her chin, meets his eye, and grins, the tiny scar on her left cheek crinkling at the corner. “Sorry,” she says, her voice warm enough to cut through the sticky humidity. “I’ve been staring at that thing through your shop window for six months. Couldn’t help myself.”
He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, runs a hand over the short gray hair at the back of his head. He’s disgusted with himself for noticing how the dress fits the curve of her shoulders, for cataloging the way her nail polish is chipped at the edges, the silver hoop earring she’s wearing in her right ear. He’s spent 12 years training himself not to look, not to care, convinced anyone his age who chases that kind of thrill is an idiot begging to get their heart broken again. She leans in a little closer, her iced coffee cup brushing his forearm, cold condensation seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I found a 1938 Remington in the back closet of the bookstore last week,” she says, flipping her phone open to pull up a photo, holding it so close their shoulders press together. “Rusted shut, missing three keys. I’ve got a whole box of old typewriter ribbons I’ve been hoarding for you, too. Figured I’d ask if you’d teach me how to fix it. I’ll pay you, obviously. Buy you as much bourbon as you want.”
He almost says no, the automatic response, the one he uses when anyone tries to get past the walls he’s built around his shop, his routine, his quiet little life. But then he looks over at her, and she’s still looking at him, no pity, no awkwardness, just a little teasing lift to her eyebrow, and he finds himself nodding before he can think better of it. They agree to meet at his usual booth after the block party wraps up, when the crowds clear out and the bluegrass band packs up their gear.
By the time he drags his table and boxes of typewriters back to his shop and locks up, the sun is dipping below the rooftops, the air cooling off just enough to be comfortable. She’s already in the booth when he gets there, sliding into the seat next to him instead of across the table, like she already knows he hates yelling across small spaces. Her thigh presses against his through the worn vinyl of the booth, warm through the fabric of his jeans, and he doesn’t move away. She pulls up the photos of the Remington again, leaning in so he can see the screen, her hair brushing his cheek, and she admits she’s noticed he comes to the bar every Tuesday and Thursday, always orders the same drink, always sits with his back to the wall so he can watch the door. She says she’s been wanting to talk to him for months, but thought he hated everyone, what with the locked shop door and the scowl he wears when he’s carrying typewriters up the front steps.
He laughs, a rough, rusty sound he hasn’t heard come out of his own mouth in years, and tells her he mostly just hates small talk, hates wasting time on conversations that don’t go anywhere. She grins, pulls a crumpled napkin out of her purse, scribbles her cell number on it in bright blue ink, and presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering for three slow beats longer than necessary. He folds the napkin up, shoves it into the front pocket of his flannel, where he can feel the crinkle of the paper against his chest. He tells her he can stop by the bookstore tomorrow afternoon, after he finishes up a repair on a 1960s IBM Selectric for a local college professor, bring the tools he’ll need to take a look at the Remington.
He lifts his bourbon glass to clink against her iced tea, the clink sharp and bright over the low hum of the bar’s jukebox playing old Johnny Cash.
