Elias Voss, 51, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a cinder block garage turned workshop in southeast Portland. He’s spent the last eight years actively dodging any social event requiring more than ten minutes of small talk, his only regular interaction outside of drop-off customers being the tabby cat that naps on his workbench and the corner liquor store cashier who knows his rye order by heart. His biggest flaw, per the neighbor who bakes him peach pie every summer, is that he’s convinced he’s better off alone, no exceptions. He only agreed to man the neighborhood block party’s book swap table because that same neighbor brought him a pie two weeks prior, and he owed her the favor.
The air smells like grilled hamburgers and cut grass, the distant thud of 90s country drifting from the DJ booth at the end of the block. Elias is halfway through a tattered copy of Jim Harrison’s *Dalva* when a shadow falls over the fiction stack in front of him. He looks up, and his throat goes tight. Maren Hale, 38, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, is the last person he expected to see here, the last person he spoke to the day his ex moved out 10 years prior. She’s got freckles across her nose, a tattoo of a typewriter key peeking out from her denim jacket cuff, and she’s grinning like she already knows he’s uncomfortable.
He’s immediately torn between grabbing his book and bailing, or pretending he doesn’t recognize her. That’s the disgust part, the part that still associates anyone tied to his ex with the sharp, cold humiliation of coming home to an empty closet and a note on the kitchen counter. But then she leans across the table to grab a dog-eared copy of *What We Talk About When We Talk About Love*, and her forearm brushes his. He smells coconut shampoo and cedar, and desire hits so fast it makes his ears warm. She says she remembers him reading Carver on the back porch during family cookouts, how he’d let her mess around with his old Royal typewriter when she was 19 and visiting for the summer.
She pulls a folding chair up next to him, so close their knees brush through their jeans when she sits. She’s a travel nurse, she says, just passing through for a few days to visit her mom, who lives three houses down. She heard he still fixes typewriters, she’s got her grandma’s old Underwood in her truck bed, has hauled it across the country for three years without finding anyone who can unstick the stubborn keys. Elias opens his mouth to say he’s booked solid for the next month, but she’s looking at him with dark, steady eyes, no pity, no awkwardness about the divorce, just genuine curiosity, and the words die in his throat. He tells her he can take a look at it after the block party wraps up, if she wants.
The sun dips below the rooflines as they talk, streetlights flickering on one by one, crickets chirping in the maple trees lining the sidewalk. She laughs at his dumb joke about the customer who brought in a typewriter full of dead cockroaches, leaning in so close her shoulder presses against his bicep. He hasn’t laughed that easy in years, hasn’t let anyone sit that close without tensing up. When the last stragglers pack up their coolers, she stands, slinging her tote over her shoulder, and asks if they can walk back to his shop now. He nods, folding up the book swap table slower than he needs to, his hands a little shaky.
The walk to his shop is three quiet blocks, distant traffic hum soft in the background. Her hand brushes his twice when they step off the curb to cross the street. He doesn’t pull away. When they get to the garage, he fumbles with the lock for ten seconds before it clicks open, and she steps in behind him, her chest pressing against his back for half a second when they cross the threshold. He turns on the workbench lamp, golden light spilling over stacks of old typewriter parts and leather-bound notebooks, and she whistles, running a finger along the edge of a 1950s Remington he just finished restoring.
He pulls the Underwood out of her truck, sets it on the workbench, and spends twenty minutes showing her how to adjust the carriage return, how to clean keys without damaging the enamel. Their fingers brush when he passes her a small flathead screwdriver, and she doesn’t yank her hand away fast. She tells him she’s only in town for three more days, but has a three-month Portland travel assignment lined up for next spring, already put in for it. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs his copy of *Dalva*, tucks a scrap of paper with his cell number scrawled on it inside the front cover, and hands it to her.
She tucks the book into her tote, leans in, and kisses his cheek, soft, her lip gloss tasting like cherry when it brushes his skin. She says she’ll text him first thing tomorrow to make dinner plans. He nods, walking her to her truck, opening the driver’s side door for her. She waves when she pulls out of the driveway, and he stands in the open garage doorway long after her taillights fade around the corner, the faint smell of coconut still clinging to the collar of his flannel shirt.
