142

Oh 142, how I've missed you.

Lately I've been shamefully seduced from your comfort by the tease of post-post-Easter discount candy and have squandered my premenstrual, mid-menstrual, and upcoming post-menstrual needs on the tasty chocolate/caramel/cookie wonder that is a bag of mini Twix bars.

Here, on a stress-filled afternoon, after a weary week of woe, I wander to your welcoming bosom, coins jingling in my hand, anticipating the sweet goodness of your chocolaty shell, the fluffy comfort of your nougat center. I eye the empty slots of the long-neglected vending machine and rejoice when I find your precious niche filled with plenty. As my coins slide into the slot and thunk down through the innards of the great prison that withholds you, one pesky quarter is rejected by the Philistine machine.

In desperation I rubbed the quarter against my thigh. When that fails, I entreat the aid of the machine, hoping the friction of coin edge to metal wall will correct its deformity and deem it acceptable to the fascists that impede our reunion.

Success! The display shows my credit of $.75 and I type 142 without verification, confident that our time apart has not impacted our deeply nurtured relationship. The round circle of your captivity recedes and you quickly burst forth in freedom and tumble down into my waiting embrace.

Oh 142, sweet Three Musketeers Bar, I will never doubt you again.