You are standing in front of the vending machine at 2 p.m., annoyed, because the bag of chips has jammed against the glass and refuses to drop. You slap the side. You consider it a small daily injustice. From here, I would give a great deal to slap that machine again.
Look at the light of it. That soft interior glow, the rows of bright wrappers, the low mechanical hum you have stopped hearing. You are in the beige hallway between the meeting you dreaded and the meeting you forgot about, and you have four quarters warm in your hand because you never carry cash except for this.
You think this is a waste of a moment. I remember it as one of the good ones. Nobody needs anything from you here. The machine asks only that you choose, and wait, and watch the coil turn.
Buy the chips. Slap the glass. Curse when the bag hangs. Then buy a second thing to knock the first one loose, the way you always do, and pretend you didn't want it anyway.
You will not remember what the meeting was about.
You will remember, without trying, exactly how the coil looked as it turned.