The Agony of Defeat - Flash Fiction #47

“Here,” she said, handing him the last soda.  He had smiled at her with such glowing honesty she couldn’t help but flirt.  She had been guarding that bottle, waiting until her glass was empty to make her move, but then he came along.  

She watched his able hands wrench the safety seal as he unscrewed the top.  She heard the hiss of the carbon dioxide escaping from the bottle, and smelled the sickly sweet soda.  As he brought the bottle to his lips, the feeling of fizz on her tongue was real.  This was not going to work.  

“I’ll be back,” she said, with a curt whip of her ponytail.  Keys, coins, and she was down the stairs to the vending machine.  

It was always a gamble, this machine.  It had just been replaced, the old one literally in tatters.  It had been weeks before it finally was stocked, and her eyes lit up with glee when she saw that the tiny green display did not read “Sold Out.”  

Quarter.  Quarter.  Dime. Dime. Dime. Quarter. Dime. Dime.  Each fell into the pristine machine with an appreciable metallic clink.  The display read her score: $1.25.  Soda price.  Exact change.  

Her eyes scoured the buttons.  So many options, all with the promise of chilling effervescence.  But to which should she commit?  Her mind briefly flitted back to the boy in her apartment.  Her roommate’s party had depleted her stash.

In haste, she pressed the cola button.  The display spelled out “Vending.”  This is what the machine was for, she thought, remembering several previous carbonation urges when it had left her completely unsatisfied.  “Vending” it flashed again.  There was a muted clunk, almost not loud enough to be a bottle falling into the box.  She looked down.  Nothing.  The display flashed “Sold out.”  Her coins reappeared with unremarkable clamor.

Fine, she thought, and reloaded.  This time, a diet.  “Vending” clunk “Sold out.” And an orange.  “Vending” clunk “Sold out.”  When she had tried them all, she walked away from the machine.  It no longer read “Cold Drinks” but the disappointing green sign read “Sold out.”

She returned.  Her last soda was nearly drained, and his other hand was otherwise occupied.  She should have known.  Slinking into her room, she slammed the door, hurt and discouraged.  

But then, her eyes glimmered as they settled on an item on her desk.  Crack. Hiss. Pay dirt.