It gleamed on the table. Polished gunmetal gray like new. Like it isn't at least four decades old. Keys as bright white as the day they were made. Wizard Truetype. It speaks to me in its strange click-clack language, whispering of stories that will seep up into my fingers and out onto clean sheets of paper.
I hover over it for a minute, testing the keys, considering the expense. There is another in the corner, a Royal. It's cheaper. I look at the Royal, pick it up, weigh it, stroke its keys, but the Wizard's magic is strong.
It's only a $10 difference, I told myself. I just won't eat lunch out for a day.
I wander back to the Wizard. The clerk watches me from his perch at the front counter as I test its keys. There's no electricity in this machine, and yet it seems to crackle as I touch it. It's magnetic, the new relationship between this typewriter and I. I carry it to the counter. I think if it could, it would emit a contented sigh. We belong together, this Wizard and I.
I pay, wincing a little once I hear the total with tax. But again it whispers to me of the stories we'll tell together. I'm worth it, the Wizard says.
I note that the bookstore sells replacement ribbons. The clerk tells me the typewriters come from a customer who finds and repairs them as he zips the Wizard into its two-toned vinyl case.
I carry it to my car and drive back to work, stopping for a sandwich along the way. I feel light despite the overcast gloom of the day.
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