The most serious person in the world

 

    We all seem so serious and adult, or rather, we all appear to be very serious and adult. But today, while someone was explaining why a certain Regulation is inadequate, everyone pretended not to notice the collective breath-holding and the eyes discreetly turning towards the vending machine. For those of us with our backs turned, like myself, who couldn't just spin around, our only option was to follow the attentive gaze of the person standing in front of the machine, whose apprehension and subsequent relief indicated that everything remained unchanged.

    We have been facing a serious problem: slot number 30 of the Institute's vending machine always dispenses a Ritter chocolate, but the flavors vary, and the one currently at the front of the queue is Marzipan. Naturally, although Marzipan originates from Lübeck, nobody appreciates it. Bitter as almond, it has to be swallowed before our brain can process the taste, but not only does it take an eternity to sink your teeth into that pasty mass, but it is also hard to know what to do with it afterwards, because it crumbles, melts, gets stuck in the teeth, or something similar. Anyway, considering the number of days that have passed since the Marzipan has been waiting for someone to choose it, nobody wants it. And what's worse, lined up behind it, or rather, after it, are the chocolates with nuts, Waffle, Alpine milk, coffee – all highly desired. The source of anxiety: knowing who will be lucky enough to be nearby the moment the Marzipan falls into the chosen products' dispenser.

    But as I was saying, we all seem very serious. The problem with very serious people is that you already know how they proceed: the one who is closest to the machine when the Marzipan falls will approach the machine slowly, scrutinize it calmly, if necessary with a phone in hand (so it seems like the least premeditated act of their life, and so there's no hint of suspicion that they were intentionally lingering by the machine). After looking at all the options, and pretending to consider them at length, they will press the first digit of the Ritter, number 3, cancel the option, pretend they still have to think, that they're tempted by the Kinder, and then finally press 30, stash the chocolate in their bag, and show that they'll wait until dinner time.

    Me, on the other hand, I can assure you that if I'm around at that time, as soon as I see the number 3 being pressed, I'll thank the future owner of the Marzipan, explain that they've done me a great favor, and that I've been waiting for this moment for a long time. Since I'll already be by the machine when it falls into the dispenser, I won't have any competitors for pressing number 30, Nuts. Hearing the "thud" of the fall, I'll open the packet and taste the first square, but I won't leave before pressing number 30 two more times, taking the next two chocolates with me. After having the machine halted for several days, I don't want to make the mistake of spending another few days with the also depressing sight of Coffee.

    Intentions having been declared, I hope luck is lurking, and if not luck, then that justice is. Those who pretend to be serious while being excited, what else might they hide? Me with three chocolates in hand, I might not seem like it, but I'm the most serious person in the world.