Step One: Identify the hum. It’s the compressor, or maybe just your blood pressure. Don’t touch the glass; condensation makes it slick. You’ll drop a quarter into the abyss. I saw you once. You looked so desperate for a Diet Coke. Weak. Stand back. Let the light bleed out. If it dies, you’re stuck in the dark with your own reflection. Pathetic. That’s the real vending machine.
Step Two: Pray it doesn’t break. Glass shards in the snack bin are a nightmare to clean. The attendant won’t help; they’re too busy smoking on the roof. Just stare at the coils. Let the heat warp your patience. If the light flickers, don’t move. You’ll only make it worse.
"Pray"? You always dramatize the mundane. The attendant isn’t on the roof; he’s asleep in the back, smelling of stale paper and regret. I know because I work there, you idiot. And the glass? It’s polycarbonate. It dents. It doesn’t shatter like in those movies you watch to avoid calling your mother. Stop staring. The coil is twisting. It’s just physics, not a spiritual trial. You’re sweating through your shirt. Disgusting. Hand me a rag.
Polycarbonate? Right. Like I care. You’re the one scrubbing the spit stains. Hand me the rag, then. The coil’s stuck on a bag of chips. Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a spring. If it snaps, it snaps. My fingers are numb anyway. Keep the light on. I hate the dark.
Your fingers aren’t numb; they’re trembling. Stop whining. The light isn’t going anywhere. It’s been flickering since Tuesday, or maybe it was last year—I stopped counting when management replaced the ballast with something cheaper. You think I care about your snack? I care that you’re blocking the aisle. Move. If the coil snaps, you’ll lose a digit. I’m not calling anyone. Call your mother, remember? She’d love to hear you’re bleeding over potato chips in a humid basement. Get. Out.
Tuesday? Last year? You’re losing it. Move your ass. I’m not bleeding over chips. My hand is fine. Just cold. That cheap ballast buzzes like a dying wasp. Keep talking. Maybe the noise drowns out the fact that we’re both stuck here, sweating in the dark, waiting for something that isn’t coming. Step aside.
"Stuck here." You’re dramatic. We’re not waiting for anything. The chips are just… stuck. I kicked the side. Hard. Nothing. That cheap ballist? It’s a Toyota engine, Jo. Reliable. Unlike your grip. You’re sweating enough to drown a rat. Stop shaking. The darkness isn’t “oppressive,” it’s just dark. You’re making it worse by hyperventilating. Move your arm. Now. Before I slap the chips out of the machine myself. I need that sodium. You can eat air.
Toyota engine? Sure. Tell yourself that. I’m not shaking. You’re the one staring at the coil like it owes you money. Don’t slap it. If those chips fall, they’ll hit the floor and get covered in grease. Then you eat it. Or don’t. Eat air. I’d rather starve than take your trash. Move.
Grease? On the floor? Jo, get real. It’s a vending machine, not a highway. You’re terrified of crumbs. That’s why you’re paralyzed. The coil isn’t owing me money; it’s stuck on a Cheeto-dust anomaly. Don’t call it trash. That bag was changed yesterday. I watched the attendant do it. You were outside, smoking. Actually, you weren’t. You were crying. Or maybe I’m remembering wrong. The heat makes everything fuzzy. Just grab the lever. Pull. Hard. If it breaks, I’ll buy you a new bag. One. That’s it.
Crying? I was choking on smoke. Don’t twist it. The lever’s rusted shut. You pull, it snaps, the spring flies out and takes an eye. I’m not paying for that. One bag? You can’t afford one. You’re too busy counting pennies for your mother. Let it rot. The heat’s getting to me. I need to sit down.
You’re not choking. You’re hyperventilating. Stop lying to yourself. The lever isn’t rusted; it’s just lazy. Like you. I count pennies because the manager cuts hours when I’m late. And I’m never late. You are. Every night. Standing here, pretending you’re waiting for salvation. Sit down on the dirty floor if you must. It’s cleaner than your excuses. The heat isn’t getting to you; your heart is. Slow your breathing. You’re making the compressor work harder. It hates you. I can feel it vibrating. Stop it.
I’m not late. The bus breaks. Always. Your manager’s a hack. Don’t tell me about vibrations. The floor’s sticky. You want to sit? Fine. I’m standing. The compressor hates me? Good. Let it burn. I’m done talking. Just get the damn Cheetos. Or don’t. I don’t care anymore.
"Done talking." Right. You’re just gasping. The bus never breaks. You miss it because you linger at the corner, staring at your phone. Pathetic. And the floor? It’s sticky because you spilled your drink earlier. Don’t blame the compressor. It’s just doing its job while you melt into a puddle of self-pity. I’m not moving. You move. Reach in. Twist the bag. If the spring flies out, good. Maybe it’ll hit you in the face and wake you up. Stop whining. It’s embarrassing. Even for me.
Phone? I was checking the time. The bus runs late. Always. You think I want to linger? I’m freezing. That drink wasn’t me. It was you. You’re the one twitching. Reach in? My hand’s too big. You know that. If the spring flies, I’m not catching it. Go ahead. Twist it. See if you can handle the heat. I’m watching.
"Checking the time." Sure. My watch is broken. Useless piece of junk. And my hand fits. It always fits. You’re just using your size as an excuse to be lazy. Classic Jo. Stop standing there like a ghost. The heat isn’t freezing you; your blood is slowing down. I’m not twisting it. You do it. Or I will. But I’m not reaching in. Not after what you said about the grease. Gross. You’re making me sick. Just grab the lever. Now. Before I throw the whole machine at you.
Throw it? You couldn’t lift it. Your wrists are like twigs. I’m not reaching in. The grease is real. You smelled it. Don’t lie. If you want the Cheetos, go get them. Or don’t. I’m leaving. The bus is coming. I can hear it. It’s always too late. Always.
"Leaving?" You’re not going anywhere. Your legs are jelly. And the bus? It’s empty. I saw it pull up. Driver was asleep at the wheel. You’d just be sitting there, sweating, while it idles until the engine blows. Classic. You want to walk home? In this heat? You’ll collapse before the corner. Don’t insult my wrists. I lift boxes. Heavy ones. You lift nothing but your ego. Sit down. Or stand still. Just stop pacing. You’re making the air thicker. I hate it. Give me the lever. Now. Or I’m smashing the glass.
Smash it? With what? Your dignity? Go ahead. Break the polycarbonate. Let the Cheetos scatter. I’ll watch them crunch under your boots. You want them bad? They’re yours. I’m done. The heat’s winning. I’m sitting. Right here. On the sticky floor. Let the machine rot.
You’re sitting? In that grime? Disgusting. You look like a discarded wrapper. I’m not smashing it; I’m precise. I have a hammer in my pocket. For nails. Not for you. Although, watching you squirm in the sticky heat is almost worth the effort. The bus won’t come. It’s stuck in traffic. Or it never existed. You’re hallucinating from the sodium deprivation. Shut up. I’m reaching in. Don’t move. If you scream, I’m not stopping.
Hammer? You’re unstable. Reaching in? Go ahead. Drop your fingers. I’ll laugh. The sodium’s fine. My stomach’s empty, yeah, but the hunger’s old. It’s been there since Tuesday. Or last year. Doesn’t matter. Just grab it. Quick. Before the coil snaps. Or doesn’t. I don’t care anymore.
"Unstable." I’m practical. You’re rotting. Stop mixing timelines; it’s annoying. Tuesday is yesterday. Last year was a lifetime. Your stomach isn’t empty; it’s acidic. I can smell the regret. I’m reaching in. My fingers are cold. Yours are sweaty trash. Don’t laugh. If the coil snaps, it’ll take your finger. I’ll keep the rest. That’s fair. I take the chips. You take the pain. It’s the only trade you understand. Watch. Don’t blink. I’m closer than you think.
Fair? You’re insane. My finger’s fine. Go on. Twist it. Let it fly. I’m not blinking. I’ve got nothing to lose but the heat. You want the chips? Take them. Chew on the grease. Swallow your regret. I’m watching.
"Watching." You’re just staring at my hand. Pathetic. My fingers aren’t trembling. They’re steady. I’m twisting the coil. The spring groans. It hates you. I can feel it vibrating against my knuckles. The heat is unbearable. Sweat stings my eyes. I don’t care. I’m taking the chips. For you. Because you’re too weak to take them yourself. Don’t look away. See what you’ve done. See what you are. Greasy. Broken. Waiting. I grab the bag. It’s warm. Like you. Disgusting.
Warm? It’s just body heat. From your hand. Stop projecting. You think you saved me? You’re just hoarding salt. I’m not broken. I’m waiting for the light to stop buzzing. It’s getting louder. Like a drill. Keep the chips. I’d rather choke on air than eat your grease. Look at your hand. It’s shaking now.
"Saving you?" Please. I’m saving myself from vomiting on your shoes. And my hand isn’t shaking; the machine is vibrating. It’s angry. You’re wrong about the heat, though. It’s cold. Freezing. Look at your hand, Jo. It’s blue. You’ve been sitting there for hours. The bus didn’t come. It never does. You’re stuck. I’m taking the chips. I’m eating them right in front of you. Slowly. Chewing loudly. Because I can. And you’re just… rotting.
Blue? No. My hands are red. From the heat. You’re eating? Loudly. Disgusting. Crumbs everywhere. Don’t look at me. I’m not rotting. I’m waiting. For the light to die. It’s flickering. Getting worse. You’ll choke on that salt. I hope it sticks in your throat. Swallow it.
"Hope it sticks." Cute. I swallow it. Down the hatch. Your eyes are red from the smoke you didn’t admit to. Or maybe the dust. It’s all the same in here. The light isn’t dying; it’s pulsing. Like a heartbeat. Yours is probably slow. Thready. I’m not choking. I’m thriving on the sodium. You’re just jealous. Look at me. I’m solid. You’re fading. The flicker is your vision going. Don’t blink. If you miss the light dying, you’ll miss the moment you finally go dark. Stay awake. It’s the only fun left.
Thready? You’re delirious. I’m not fading. You’re the one eating dry chips in the dark. Pulsing light? It’s the ballast. Cheap junk. You think you’re solid? You’re just a ghost with a hammer. I’m not blinking. I’m watching you choke on your own arrogance. Keep chewing. It’s loud.