Roman Novak is 59, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a cramped shop tucked between a fish market and a laundromat in Astoria, Oregon. He’s got a scar slicing across his left eyebrow from a 2019 storm that knocked a 1920s Underwood off a shelf onto his head, and a habit of grunting instead of answering when customers ask if he “can cut them a deal” on a machine he spent 40 hours stripping, cleaning, and re-calibrating. Twelve years prior, his wife left him for a real estate developer who’d commissioned a custom restored Royal as a birthday gift for her; Roman had spent three months sourcing the original keytops, and she’d walked out with the typewriter and a suitcase while he was out picking up parts. Since then, he’d kept his social circle limited to the guys at the bait shop and the barista at the corner coffee stand, no exceptions.
He’d only agreed to set up a booth at the annual Astoria Summer Beer & Maker Fest because his cousin begged him, said the foot traffic would move the portable machines he’d fixed up over the winter. He’d been there three hours, sold exactly two typewriters, and was halfway through considering packing up early when she leaned over the edge of his folding table. She was 56, a linen restorer from Portland down for the weekend, her auburn hair streaked with gray pulled back in a messy braid, freckles splashed across her nose, a faded Pearl Jam flannel tied around her waist, work boots caked with sawdust from the embroidery hoops she refinished. She reached for the 1950s Royal Quiet De Luxe sitting front and center on the table, and their hands brushed when he moved to adjust the paper roll he’d tucked in the carriage. He flinched back like he’d touched a hot soldering iron, jaw tightening. She laughed, warm and low, no offense taken. “Sorry, I should’ve asked before grabbing. My grandma had one exactly like this. Typed all her recipe cards on it.”
He nodded, not saying anything, but he watched her walk back to her booth two aisles over, where she was selling hand-embroidered linen table runners and cocktail napkins. He caught her glancing over at him every few minutes, her head tilted a little like she was trying to figure him out. When a kid spilled a seltzer all over his shirt an hour later, she pulled a free embroidered handkerchief out of her stack and handed it to him, patting his shoulder before he ran off to find his mom. Roman’s chest felt tight, the way it always did when he saw someone be kind without expecting anything in return, a feeling he’d spent a decade pushing down.
The rain hit without warning, a sharp coastal downpour that sent all the vendors scrambling to cover their stock. Roman grabbed the heavy vinyl tarp he’d tucked under his table, and before he could think better of it, he was running toward her booth, where a stack of her linen runners was about to blow off the edge into a puddle. He tossed the tarp over the stack, and they both leaned in to tie it to the tent poles, their shoulders pressed tight together, rain dripping off the brim of his baseball cap onto her arm. He smelled lavender and pine soap on her skin, under the faint scent of linen starch. She smelled machine oil and cedar, the scents that clung to his clothes from his workshop. When the tarp was secured, they ducked under the edge of her tent to wait out the worst of the rain, standing so close their knees brushed every time one of them shifted. He found himself telling her about the Underwood that gave him the scar, about the old lady who brought in a typewriter last month that her late husband had used to write her love letters during the Vietnam War. She told him about the linen tablecloth she was restoring for a family that had carried it through three generations of weddings, the stain on the corner from a 1978 champagne spill that had taken her 12 hours to lift. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk to her, how he didn’t feel the urge to shut down and walk away.
When the rain cleared, the fest started wrapping up, most of the crowd heading to the bars downtown. She walked over to his booth 10 minutes later, holding two cold IPAs and a paper plate with a slice of rhubarb pie from the food truck at the end of the row. She handed one of the beers to him, and they sat on the edge of his now-empty folding table, watching the sun dip below the Columbia River, painting the sky pink and orange. She asked if she could type a note on the Royal Quiet De Luxe, the one they’d both reached for earlier. He hesitated for half a second, the old voice in his head yelling that he’d be stupid to let anyone get close again, that he’d just end up hurt. Then he nodded, sliding the typewriter toward her. She typed for 10 seconds, pulled the sheet of paper out, folded it in half, and slid it across the table to him. “I’m in town until Monday. No pressure, if you’re not interested.” She gave him a small smile, then walked back to her booth to pack up.
He waited until she was out of sight to open the note. The keys had pressed deep into the thick cardstock, the letters crisp and black. I’m staying at the guest house on 9th Street. If you want to show me your workshop tomorrow night, no haggling, no small talk required. There was a smudge of her thumbprint on the bottom right corner, faint and blue from the embroidery floss she’d been working with all day. He folded the note back up, tucked it into the pocket of his work jacket, and finished packing up his booth, a stupid grin on his face the whole time.
He got home that night, and for the first time in 12 years, he took the crumpled photo of his ex-wife off his workbench and tossed it in the trash. He swept the metal shavings off the floor, wiped down the work counter, and set the Royal Quiet De Luxe on the edge of the table by the door. He knocked off work an hour early the next day, showered, put on a clean flannel, and pulled a bottle of pinot noir he’d been saving for a “special occasion” he never thought would happen out of the fridge. He heard the knock on his door at 7 o’clock exactly. He opened it, and she was standing there holding a stack of hand-stitched linen coasters, embroidered with tiny typewriter keys, and a brown paper bag with fresh blackberry pie from the bakery downtown. He stepped aside to let her in, his palm brushing the small of her back as she crossed the threshold.
