The machine spat out a can of tonic water with a triumphant hiss, as if mocking my poor aim. I glared at the stubborn metal beast, my hand hovering over the selection buttons. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her: a girl, maybe a year or two younger, her face flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment. She was tapping furiously at her phone, the vending machine her indifferent adversary.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to laugh, a cruel, self-preserving instinct. The other part, a tiny flicker of something unfamiliar, nudged me forward. Before I could think twice, I was there, hovering over her shoulder.
“You need to press the buttons on the machine, not your phone,” I said, my voice coming out drier than expected.
She looked up, startled, her eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and something else I couldn’t quite place. I pointed at the buttons, my finger hovering awkwardly. She nodded, her cheeks coloring deeper.
With a clumsy efficiency, I guided her through the process, selecting her ice cream, inserting the money. When the machine finally dispensed the sweet reward, she smiled, a shy, grateful smile.
As she turned to leave, I felt a pang of regret. My rescue had been more of a condescending lecture than a friendly assist. I should have offered to buy her the ice cream. Instead, I’d been a know-it-all, a stranger imposing his help on someone clearly struggling to navigate a simple task.
I watched her walk away, a small figure disappearing into the crowd.
