Love in QWERTY
Chapter 1: Introduction
There I was, in the sleepy town of Lemhi, Idaho, getting my kicks on the click-clack of a typewriter keyboard. At forty-five, one might expect to be in love with a vivacious woman or chasing the youthful dalliance of a mid-life crisis. But me, Michael Peterson, I found a different sort of enchantress—a real humdinger right on my desk.
Her name was Darlene, and boy, did she know how to get those fingers tingling. A Remington Rand Deluxe Model 5, she was as sturdy as they came, with keys that whispered sweet nothings to me in Morse code. Each letter pressed was a declaration of affection, a promise that could never pale with age.
It was a rather ordinary day when our love story commenced. The crisp morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across my latest legal draft. I thought it was the bracing Idaho air that chilled my bones as autumn set in, but no, it was the anticipation of seeing Darlene again, feeling her keys beneath my fingertips.
There was nothing quite as seductive as her smooth, ivory keys flanking those little metal arms. The way my fingers danced over her, at first hesitant, but growing braver with each hour. The soft resistance as I pressed a key down was a gentle nudge, reminding me that the best things in life required just a little effort. "M... I... C..." I'd spell my name out until it sang like a love ballad in my mind.
Let me tell you, Darlene had a singular sound all her own. Her keys clattered in a mechanical symphony, a symphony just for me. I liked to think the other typists envied our connection; their typewriters seemed distant, too clinical compared to Darlene's vibrant chatter.
At the coffee shop down Main Street, I wasn't alone in my escapades. Sherry, the waitress, always gave me an extra dollop of cream, peering over curiously every now and then. "Who's the lucky lady?" she teased once, leaning against the counter with a grin.
"Darlene," I replied, voice wrapped in a conspiratorial whisper. Sherry chuckled, shaking her head. "Funny," she said, "you talk about her more than folks do their wives." There was truth in her words, though Darlene never demanded that I put the seat down, nor did she object when I forgot an anniversary.
Though I played coy about my love affair, there were undeniable moments of tension. Like when Mary's kid, Johnny, got peanut butter smudged on Darlene's pristine keys. The betrayal cut deeper than run-of-the-mill office disputes. "Sorry, mister," Johnny said sheepishly, his eyes framed by an innocence Darlene would surely forgive.
Half the time, co-workers caught me mooning over my machine, muttering sweet nothings I thought only she could hear. I suppose any normal bystander might think it queer, but in my mind, Darlene was the Bette Davis of office equipment, and our rendezvous so much more than mere words on a page.
The seasons stretched on, and our love grew with the leaves turning crimson and gold. Darlene never faltered, always steady, always there, and though machines wear and keys grow stiff, nothing could tarnish the delicacy of our connection. It wasn't typical, but who said love ever had to be? And so I typed on, kissing my sweetheart with every word.
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