Qwerty

Collections.
Clarence scrubbed the grimy casing gently, working through at least forty years of grime. He had been diligently working for 3 hours with his toothbrush and non-abrasive whipes. Clarence slid his lint free cloth around the smooth rounded corners, finally being able to see a dull gleam off of its eighty-year old lacquered finish. Clarence stood back to admire his work, a mist of perspiration slowly beading up on his high forehead, but he quickly brought his face forward, pushing his half moon glasses up his nose with a stubby, dirty finger. A small smudge had jumped out to offend him through the reflected light. He examined the offending bit of tarnish on the light grey casing.
"There we go," he said with a sigh of contentment as he rubbed the unsightly stain out with his thumb.
"Oh my, you really are beautiful, aren’t you?"
Clarence stood back in awe, hands grimy, face back sweaty and shoulders sore. None of that physical discomfort mattered to Clarence right now. He would worry about himself later. This moment was for her. This moment was for his newly acquired 1926 Remington A4 27 office model typewriter in next to mint condition.
The light glinted lovingly off of it’s lightly worn keys, the lush black paper roll gently absorbed the low ambiance of the little workshop. The chrome "Remington" placard suggesting none too subtly to Clarence speed and grace.
This piece would be the crown jewel of his collection. He paid a mere $625 dollars for it when it was easily worth over two thousand dollars. That old lady thought she had his number, when really it was the other way around. This wasn’t some 1949 Olympia here, this was a 1926 Remington A4 27! There were only 750 ever made of this particular model and who knew how many remained today? Just the thought that he might have the only one left in the world made Clarence shudder with a wave of excitement.
Wait until he posted this stunning example of mechanical craftsmanship on his website. It would be the most sought after typewriter he had ever restored. This one, however, would not be for sale. This typewriter was his.
Clarence began to have second thoughts about even telling anyone at all. What if someone tried to take her away from him? Clarence flinched at the thought, his eyes widening in fear, his hands wringing themselves over his gaunt stomach. The others would covet her so . . . they would want to see her . . . they would want to . . . touch her.
"That can NEVER happen. You’re mine. MINE!"
What if someone broke in while he was away and took her away and sold her to some filthy pawn shop where they’d put her in a window to be faded by the sun’s harmful rays, or in a dusty back room to re-accumulate all that filth??
"I can’t take that risk. I must never leave you." A single tear streaked through the grime on his cheek, leaving a thin wet trail of sorrow at the thought of no longer being able to be close to her. He sat down in front of his magnificent property and gazed upon her steadfast frame and romantic construction. Clarence laid his hands upon her ebony keys and sighed, forgetting his troubles, his fears, the world.