Rudy Voss is 64, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of the sunporch of his cottage outside Ashland, Oregon, and hasn’t voluntarily attended a public community event since his wife Elara died of breast cancer eight years prior. His only social outings are supply runs to the local office parts shop and curbside drop-offs of finished machines, no small talk, no lingering. His 22-year-old niece showed up on his porch at 4 p.m. that Fourth of July, hauled the folding chair he’d kept in his garage since Elara’s last concert into the bed of her truck, and threatened to hide all his rare typewriter key sets if he didn’t come with her. He’d caved, and now he’s perched on that same chair at the edge of the crowd, lukewarm IPA in a faded Oregon Ducks koozie, a smudge of black typewriter ink still streaked on the cuff of his work jeans, already mentally running through the list of 1940s Underwood parts he needs to order the next morning to pass the time.
The band cranks into a rough cover of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” and a woman hurrying past trips over the cooler at his feet, lurching forward to catch herself with one hand wrapped firm around his forearm. Her iced peach tea sloshes over the rim of her plastic cup, a single cold drop landing on the top of his scuffed work boot. She’s 62, silver hair braided down her back with a red-white-blue ribbon woven through the plait, sun freckles dusted across her nose, wearing a faded Joni Mitchell concert tee and cutoff jean shorts, calluses rough on the palm of the hand still pressed to his arm. She laughs, warm and throaty, and pulls her hand back like she’s only just realized she’s touching him, holding out a crumpled napkin from her tote bag to wipe his boot. “Sorry about that. Rushing to beat the brisket slider line before they sell out, and I’ve had two seltzers already so my depth perception is shot.”
Rudy blinks, tenses up first, ready to brush her off and go back to ignoring the crowd, but the smell of lavender and grilled pineapple off her hair hits him before he can speak, and he mumbles that it’s fine, no harm done. She nods, sets her chair down in the empty spot right next to his, instead of the two open spots further down the row, and he doesn’t move his chair an inch away. They sit in quiet for three songs, their knees only six inches apart, every time the crowd cheers she leans a little into his space to see the stage better, their shoulders brushing once, twice, the soft cotton of her tee warm against the flannel of his shirt. She pulls a Tupperware of chocolate chip cookies out of her tote halfway through the band’s set of 70s country covers, holds one out to him, still warm from the oven, crumbs dusting the edge of her thumbnail. “Baked these this morning. My grandson bailed on me last minute to hang out with his girlfriend, so I’ve got enough to feed a small army.”
He takes the cookie, it’s chewy in the middle, melty chocolate sticking to the pad of his thumb, and he licks it off without thinking, catching her staring at his mouth for half a second before she looks away, grinning. They talk slow, no rush, he tells her about the 1952 Royal Quiet De Luxe he just finished restoring for a college student writing her thesis on 20th century beat poets, she tells him she’s a retired elementary school art teacher, runs a small pottery studio out of her garage, sells mugs and planters at the same farmers market he occasionally drops off typewriters at on Saturdays. He mentions he hasn’t been to one of these summer concerts since Elara died, and she nods, soft, says her husband Mike passed five years earlier from a heart attack, she still comes every year because he loved the terrible local cover bands and always brought extra sparklers for the kids.
The band slows down, cranks into a slurred, sweet cover of Conway Twitty’s “Slow Hand”, and couples all around them start swaying together, slow, close. She turns to him, eyebrow raised, the gold hoop in her left ear catching the pink and orange of the sunset, and she holds one hand out between them. “Haven’t danced in three years. You brave enough to risk me stepping on your boots?” Rudy hesitates, his first instinct to say no, to go back to his quiet, planned, uncomplicated life where no one touches him unexpectedly and no one asks him to dance, but he looks at her hand, calloused from throwing clay, and he stands up, laces his fingers through hers.
They sway at the edge of the crowd, no fancy steps, her arm wrapped loose around his waist, his hand light on her hip, their cheeks almost touching. She rests her head on his shoulder for ten seconds, and he can smell the lavender shampoo in her hair and the peach seltzer on her breath, and she mumbles against his flannel that he’s a way better dancer than Mike, who stepped on her feet every single time they danced at weddings. The song ends right as the first firework bursts red above the field, painting her face bright crimson when she pulls back to look up at him, grinning. He doesn’t let go of her hand.
She asks if he wants to come back to her studio after the fireworks are done, says she found a beat up 1949 Royal KMM at a garage sale last month, doesn’t type right, she’s been meaning to ask someone if it’s fixable, plus she’s got a bottle of peach bourbon she’s been saving for no good reason. Rudy nods, doesn’t even think about the fact that he planned to be home by nine, folding laundry and watching a rerun of *The Magnificent Seven*. They walk slow toward the parking lot, his hand still tangled in hers, boots crunching on gravel as another firework bursts blue behind them, lighting up the outline of her braid.
