My boyfriend has always wanted a typewriter. As I knew that his birthday was coming up I decided I would thrift one. I searched high and low, and then one day - there it was. In Hell's kitchen on 39th, for $40, looking forlorn in a corner. I dusted her off, brought her home and offered her up triumphantly.
I love hearing the rare rat-tat-tat and swoosh when on occasion he fancies himself an old school writer and sits at the desk typing away. One day I glanced at the paper still sitting tightly in the typewriter and it read:
I once wrote a story for my girlfriend about a beach, a typewriter and a game of scrabble. My typewriter has no ONE key and the O sticks. It also has no attention-grabbing mind-numbing portal to Google, Facebook and Czech lesbian websites. All it does is write each document hammered into the page with a sense of purpose alien to modern PCs. I imagine it is from the 1930s or so. Where the typewriter has been or who's fingers have struck it are unknown to me. What was written here? Did you write novel as I'd like to believe? Have characters sprang from these simple machinations? Have you written love letters that changed the recipient's life for ever? Perhaps poetry has poured through your metal chassis or a thesis on organic chemistry that changed the way we conceive this planet of ours?
From my boyfriend L, the writer
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