Vending Machine B7

Finding a love in front of the Vending Machine

They met in front of the vending machine that never worked—
B7, permanently jammed with Cheese Puffs.

She was shaking it gently, like negotiation might help.
He was watching because the last thing he expected
to find charming at a community ice rink
was frustration.

“Don’t,” he said. “It smells weakness.”

She glanced over. “I paid. I deserve the Cheese Puffs.”

He admired her logic.
Also her refusal to give up.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out loose money,
and fed the machine again.
It whined. It stalled.
The bag dropped halfway and stopped—mocking them.

“That figures,” she sighed.
“Story of my life.”

He nodded toward the rink behind them.
“I play hockey.
We’re taught to hit things harder when they won’t cooperate.”

Before she could stop him,
he slapped the side of the machine with surprising grace.

The Cheese Puffs fell.

They stared at each other, victorious and stunned,
like they’d just survived something together.

She split the bag without asking.
Orange dust sealed the pact.

“So,” she said, “you always rescue strangers with snack-related trauma?”

“Only the ones who look like they’d share.”

She smiled—slow, sincere—
and for the first time that night,
the rink felt warm.