She stands in front of the glass for a full minute, deciding, and I would give anything to have a decision that small again.
The machine hums its one low note, the note I stopped hearing years before I stopped being able to hear anything. She feeds it a crumpled bill and it spits it back, twice, and she smooths it flat against her thigh with the flat of her palm, patient, unbothered. She has all the time she thinks she doesn't have.
The coils turn. The bag of pretzels lurches forward and hangs there at the edge, caught, refusing to fall. She sighs. She knocks the glass with the side of her fist, once, not hard, an old and gentle argument. I remember that exact sound. I remember the little jolt it sends up through the wrist, the cold of the glass, the faint grease-and-salt smell of the whole warm-humming corner.
She doesn't notice she can feel it. Why would she. It is only Tuesday, only a snack, only her body doing the thousand automatic things a body does.
The bag drops. She reaches into that dim little trough, the one that always smelled of pennies, and closes her fingers around it, and the paper crinkles, and she does not even look down.
Eat it slowly. Feel the salt on your fingers and lick them without apology. Be annoyed that it took so long; you are allowed to be annoyed, it means you're still in line.
Knock the glass again someday, just to feel it answer.