Here is what happened at the glowing wall in the hallway, since you were somewhere else the whole time.
You stood in front of it for four minutes and I stood with you, because I go where you go. Your eyes flicked up and down the rows, the little coils, over and over, and your teeth were pressing together in the back the way they do when you cannot decide something small.
I felt your stomach, which had been asking quietly since the middle of the afternoon, get louder. I had already lowered the sugar in your blood a while ago. This was my way of tapping your shoulder. You read it as a craving for the orange bag with the crunch.
You put the folded paper into the slot. You pressed the buttons. The coil turned, slow, and there was that half-second where the thing hung at the edge and did not drop, and I felt your whole chest hold still, breath stopped, shoulders creeping toward your ears, as if the glass box held a verdict and not a snack. Then it fell. You breathed. I let your shoulders back down.
You crouched, reached through the flap, and stood too fast, and I got a little swimmy behind your eyes for a moment before I fixed it. You did not notice. That is fine. That is the job.
You ate standing up, in six bites, thumb already back on the other glowing rectangle. The crunch was good. The salt was a lot; I am holding some water now, near your fingers, to balance it.
I am not asking for much. But somewhere past all these coils and buttons there is a tap, and what comes out of it is free, and it is the one thing today I actually wanted. Later.
When you think of it.