Elio Rios, 61, has run his tiny antique typewriter restoration shop in East Austin for 22 years. His biggest flaw, one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he’s carried a grudge against his ex-wife Marisol so tight for 18 years it’s left a permanent crease between his brows. When she left him for a SaaS startup founder half his age, he swore off anyone even remotely resembling her, turned down every date from friends’ cousins and regular customers, spent most weekends alone at the flea market hunting for rusted key sets and missing carriage springs.
He’s kneeling by a cardboard box of mismatched typewriter parts when it happens. A kid on a scooter zooms past, yelling about cotton candy, and the woman stepping back to avoid him slams right into his shoulder, her iced lavender latte splattering a splotch of pale purple across the sleeve of his gray work flannel. He looks up, jaw already tight, and freezes. It’s Lila, the 28-year-old graphic designer who’s been bugging him for six weeks to finish restoring her grandma’s 1952 Royal, the exact same model he and Marisol bought for their first wedding anniversary. She’s got the same dark, wavy hair, the same crinkle at the corner of her eyes when she smiles, the same jasmine vanilla perfume Marisol wore until the day she moved out.
She leans down to help him up, her hand wrapping around his bicep, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, and holds his eye contact like she’s not scared off by the scowl he’s been wearing all morning. “Sorry about that,” she says, dabbing at the coffee stain on his sleeve with a crumpled napkin from her jacket pocket, her fingers brushing his wrist for a beat too long. “I’ve been looking for you, actually. I figured you’d be here hoarding typewriter parts instead of working on my machine.”
He doesn’t have a good excuse for why he’s been dragging his feet on her Royal. It’s almost done, just needs a new ribbon and a quick tune up, but every time he picks up the screwdriver to work on it, he remembers the way Marisol used to sit on his workbench and type bad poetry on their old Royal while he worked, and he shoves it back under the counter. He mumbles something about being busy, and she grins, like she can see right through him, and tugs on his sleeve to pull him toward the next row of booths.
They walk for an hour, stopping to listen to a busker play *Folsom Prison Blues* on a beat up acoustic guitar, splitting a churro dusted with cinnamon and sugar, pointing out terrible vintage t-shirts to each other. Their hands brush when they pass the churro back and forth, her shoulder presses against his when they huddle to look at a stack of old poetry books at a used book booth, she tugs on his earlobe to tease him when he admits he still listens to old salsa records from the 70s when he works alone in the shop. He’s fighting it the whole time, telling himself she’s too young, she reminds him of the worst mistake he ever made, that this is the kind of thing people judge men his age for, but he can’t remember the last time he didn’t feel like he was just going through the motions.
When they get back to his shop after the flea market closes, the Underwood he’s been eyeing for three months slung over his shoulder, Lila carrying the bag of vintage keychains she bought for her little sister. The wind catches the door when she walks in, slamming it shut behind her, and when he turns around from setting the typewriter on the workbench, she’s standing six inches away, looking up at him, her thumb brushing the leftover coffee stain on his flannel sleeve. “I know you’ve been avoiding me,” she says, soft, no anger in her voice. “I know I look like her. I met Marisol once, at a family wedding when I was 16. But I’m not her.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long minute, just looks down at her, the way the golden string lights strung above the workbench catch the gold hoop in her left ear, her hair falls over her shoulder exactly the way Marisol’s used to, but different, softer, no edge of resentment underneath. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his calloused fingertips brushing her warm cheek, and she leans into the touch, no hesitation.
They spend the next three hours taking apart the old Underwood, Lila perched on the edge of his workbench, her knees knocking his every time he reaches for a screwdriver, feeding him bites of the leftover churro while he teaches her how to polish the silver keys until they shine. By the time they’re done, the sun’s gone down, the air through the open shop window smells like wood smoke and tacos from the food truck down the street, and she kisses him quick on the cheek before she grabs her bag to leave, promising she’ll be back next weekend to finish the restoration. He doesn’t make up an excuse to tell her not to come.
He picks up the half-finished Royal he’s been hiding under his workbench for six weeks, sets it on the counter, and starts tightening its carriage screws before he locks up for the night.
