It doesn’t look like an automat,just a building that reeks of steeland machinery and aching backs,with a corner in which a woman sitsat a table, invisible to everyone,scowling into her cup of tea.

She had given up on pounding on doorslong ago, knowing that nobody would lether in; she depended on her green jacketfor comfort, occasionally peeking down,past the yellow banister, to the dark roomfrom which she heard laughter.

They did the best they could, said onebrown lock of hair that curved around hershoulder, tickling her neck—but the othersaid in her ear, Go downstairs, andthrow your fruit at the ungratefulpeople in the basement. 

The bowl of fruit appeared, but she keptstill 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 flickeringyellow lights.

The laughing people came upstairsand stopped in front of her table.Still chuckling, they said,Give us a smile! Give us a smile!