Jelly Beams

Just when Barry was mentally drafting his calm-but-firm complaint, Reuben appeared down the aisle, crumbs on his whiskers and hope in his eyes.

“Barry,” he whispered, reverently. “I found one.”  Barry turned.

There it was. A Jelly Belly machine. Shiny. Full. Operational.

Reuben rested one paw on it like it was a trusted old friend. He had already tested it, ob course. Once. Maybe twice. The jelly beams sat happily inside, loose and willing, absolutely not wedged in an existential standoff.

Barry approached slowly, not wanting to scare it.

Reuben put in the change and turned the knob.

Clack. Whirr. Success!! Jelly beams poured out like a miracle.

Barry’s shoulders relaxed. The tension left his tiny body. Order had been restored. The uniberse, it seemed, still worked… just not the first machine.

They shared the jelly beams on the counter — Barry sorting by color, Reuben qwietly nibbling and nodding, as if to say yes, this one understands us.

Barry looked at the broken gumball machine one last time, then back at the jelly beans on the counter. “Well,” he said, “at least we got candy.”

Reuben smiled and nudged the pile closer. “Sometimes,” he said, “that’s all you need.”