In The Streets of Fukuoka, Alone

Towards the darker end of the street, the vending machine stands looming like a reposeful light for the traveler. With relief he looks at the silverish blue can, Georgia, the name, he pronounces under his breath for at this moment it seems to offer him the most accessible solace: the warmth of a hot can of coffee on a cold night.

Happy as he is to find the right coins in his purse, he proceeds to insert them through the slot. But an empty trickle ensues, and the coins slide and fall into a little cup in the bottom. He picks up each coin and reinserts them carefully, upright, with a desperate push, one by one, but the same empty trickle ensues and the coins end up lying helplessly again in the little cup. The night is cold and the heart is ailing and the coins are available but the machine is unresponsive. An unbearable stillness comes and goes.

He doesn't kick the machine. He merely pushes the glossy button to feel the compression, and while looking down, he presses his forehead momentarily against the glass, all the time telling himself to be as kind to himself as possible, as kind to the world as possible, and without being vexing, he ponders the delivery of the silverish blue can that could have happened and is supposed to have happened. The night is cold but he knows there'll be other vending machines further down, and who knows, maybe by that time he would have found something, and the can of warm coffee becomes a mere afterthought.