It doesn’t look like an automat, just a building that reeks of steel and machinery and aching backs, with a corner in which a woman sits at a table, invisible to everyone, scowling into her cup of tea. She had given up on pounding on doors long ago, knowing that nobody would let her in; she depended on her green jacket for comfort, occasionally peeking down, past the yellow banister, to the dark room from which she heard laughter. They did the best they could, said one brown lock of hair that curved around her shoulder, tickling her neck—but the other said in her ear, Go downstairs, and throw your fruit at the ungrateful people in the basement.  The bowl of fruit appeared, but she kept still and made no comment—she heard nothing, only the sound of the rain outside, and the teacup against the blue table, and the moths banging against the flickering yellow lights. The laughing people came upstairs and stopped in front of her table. Still chuckling, they said, Give us a smile! Give us a smile!