Rafe Mendez, 57, makes his living fixing antique typewriters out of a converted West Asheville garage, his workbench permanently dusted with graphite and crusted with dried ink he can never fully scrub from under his fingernails. He’d been dragged to the annual summer block party by his next door neighbor, who’d banged on his door at 6 PM holding a six pack of IPA and saying if he spent one more night holed up with the 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe he was restoring for a Tokyo collector, he was gonna grow roots into his work stool. Rafe had protested, but he’d run out of excuses, so he’d dragged on his faded Carhartt shirt, still smudged with type oil, and followed her out.
The air was thick with July humidity, sticking to the back of his neck before he’d walked two steps. The street was strung with fairy lights, the sharp tang of citronella candles mixing with the sweet smoke of grilled brats and pineapple, a local bluegrass band plucking a raucous set on a makeshift stage at the end of the block. Rafe found a spot by an oak tree, cracked open his IPA, and started counting down the minutes till he could leave without seeming rude. He hadn’t cared for small talk since his wife Linda died eight years prior, had let his social circle shrink to exactly three people: his neighbor, his 24 year old daughter who lived in Portland, and the guy who sold him replacement typewriter ribbons downtown. The idea of making conversation with a stranger felt like running a marathon out of shape.
He turned to dodge a kid sprinting past with a melting cherry popsicle, and his shoulder slammed into someone’s chest. He stumbled back, ready to apologize, and froze. It was Elara Voss, the woman who ran the succulent shop two doors down from his repair space. He’d exchanged less than a dozen words with her over the last two years, mostly when he dropped off stray plants customers left at his shop, and he’d been quietly half-crushing on her the entire time, even though he’d assumed she was married—he’d seen a guy pick her up from the shop every Friday for six months, and he’d written the whole thing off as a stupid, unachievable fantasy for a guy who wore work boots to every public event and still slept with Linda’s old sweatshirt on cold nights.
She laughed, bright and warm, swiping a drop of peach sangria off her wrist where it had sloshed when they collided. “Easy there. Thought I was gonna end up wearing this whole glass.” She didn’t step back, staying close enough that he could smell jasmine perfume and fresh cut mint on her, her bare forearm brushing his when she tucked a strand of curly auburn hair behind her ear. Her hazel eyes held his, steady, no awkward look away like most people did when they talked to him. She said the guy he’d seen picking her up was her little brother, who’d crashed on her couch for six months after his divorce, just moved to Charlotte last week. Rafe’s throat went dry.
They talked for 20 minutes, standing by that oak tree, the noise of the party fading into background static. She told him she’d been meaning to bring him a thank you gift for the old Smith Corona he’d fixed for her niece for graduation last month, she’d just never caught him when his shop was open. He told her about the vintage typewriter keys he’d been drilling and polishing into necklaces, a stupid hobby he’d picked up during lockdown that he’d never shown anyone. She leaned in when he talked, tilting her head, her shoulder pressing into his bicep, and when he made a dumb joke about typewriter ball alignment being the most underrated romantic skill, she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, and clapped a hand over her mouth, her fingers brushing his when she did.
Rafe’s chest felt tight, half excitement, half the old familiar guilt that nipped at him every time he even thought about being interested in someone who wasn’t Linda. He told himself he was being an idiot, that she was 42, 15 years younger than him, that she had no reason to be interested in a guy who still paid for a flip phone and ate frozen pizza for dinner three nights a week. He wanted to make an excuse and leave, go back to his quiet shop and his half-finished repair, but he couldn’t make himself move.
The band slowed down, starting a soft, twangy cover of John Prine’s “Angel From Montgomery”. Couples started drifting to the patch of street cleared for dancing, and Elara tilted her head, grinning, and held out her hand. “You dance?” Rafe shook his head immediately, saying he hadn’t danced since his wedding, that he had two left feet, that he’d probably step on her dress. She wiggled her fingers, calloused at the tips from pruning cacti, and didn’t drop her hand. “C’mon. I’ll lead. If you step on my feet, I’ll just prickle you with a cactus spine later. Fair trade.”
He hesitated for three beats, then put his hand in hers. Her palm was warm, a little rough, fit perfectly in his. She led him to the dance floor, and he rested his hand light on her waist, half scared to touch her, but she shifted closer, pressing her chest to his, wrapping her free arm around his neck. Her hair brushed his jaw when she leaned in to yell over the music that she actually had a 1932 Underwood in her attic that hadn’t worked in 20 years, that she’d been meaning to ask him to look at it. He could feel the heat of her through her thin linen dress, the hum of the music vibrating through the ground under his boots, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel guilty for being happy.
The song ended, and she didn’t step back. She looked up at him, her eyes glinting in the fairy light, and said she had a bottle of 12 year bourbon stashed on her kitchen counter, if he wanted to come over after the party to look at the Underwood, no pressure, they could just drink if he didn’t feel like messing with typewriters. Rafe thought about the half finished Royal on his workbench, the frozen pepperoni pizza in his freezer, the empty house he’d gone home to every night for almost a decade. He nodded. She laced her fingers through his, tugged him away from the dance floor, toward the row of houses on the other side of the street, and didn’t let go.
