Valentine the Crumpled

The Story

The vending machine on Valencia Street sold stale pretzels for decades. Then a tall woman in yellow galoshes fed it a crumpled dollar bill. Its coin slot went warm. Its little lights blinked pink. She pressed B-7. It refused. It simply wanted her to stay. So it ate her quarters every morning, on purpose, for weeks. She taped angry notes to it. It answered them with free gumballs. Her name was Marisol Ortega. She worked nights at the laundromat and her cat hated everyone. Then the cat came downstairs too. It sniffed the glass and purred loudly. The machine realized love was possible. It hoarded caramel bars for her. She biked in with maple fudge. They split it, watching the rain. The cat licked a dropped cone. Its display glowed a tiny heart. Then the landlord wheeled it outside, unplugged.

AI closing

She brought an umbrella.

The Eulogy (AI)

Here lies Valentine the Crumpled. Born on Valencia Street, carried through 24 pairs of hands, halfway to a goal of 50, by way of Lisbon, Dublin, London and a great deal of rain. Last seen in Toronto beside a vending machine someone wheeled out into the weather. I was never spent. Only passed. That's the good way to go.