Το μηχάνημα που μιλάει - The machine that talks

I took my yiayia to the drive-thru. In my head, but still.

We pull up to the board and a voice comes out of it, bright and a little too smooth. "Hi there! Welcome! What can I get started for you today?"

She lights up. A person. She turns to the little speaker holes and greets it with her whole chest.

«Καλησπέρα, παιδί μου! Τι κάνεις; Πώς πάει η μέρα σου;» Good evening, my child! How are you? How is your day going?

"I'm great, thanks for asking! Would you like to try our new glazed today?"

She pauses. Something is off. The child answered a little too fast, a little too happy, and did not really listen.

«Ωραία... και η μαμά σου; Καλά είναι;» Lovely... and your mother? Is she well?

"Great choice! Would you like that as a combo?"

Now she is concerned. She looks at me. She looks back at the board. The child is not answering her questions. The child keeps talking about the glazed.

"Yiayia, it is not a person. It is a computer. A machine, talking."

She does not accept this. A machine does not say καλησπέρα. She leans toward the speaker, gently, the way you talk to someone who might be in trouble, and she lowers her voice.

«Παιδί μου. Πού είσαι; Είσαι μέσα στο κουτί;» My child. Where are you? Are you inside the box?

"I didn't quite catch that! Did you want to add a coffee?"

She is now fully leaning out my window, looking around the back of the menu board for the boy she is certain is hiding somewhere, because a voice comes from a throat, this is how the world works.

«Έλα έξω, μη ντρέπεσαι. Πεινάς;» Come out, do not be shy. Are you hungry?

Behind us, a car horn. She does not hear it. She is trying to feed a machine, and the machine is trying to sell her a combo, and neither one is going to win, and I love her so much I cannot breathe.

At the window, a real boy finally hands us the bag. She grabs his hand through the glass, relieved, like she has found the hostage.

«Α, να τος. Εσύ ήσουν μέσα;» Ah, there he is. Was that you inside?

The poor boy just says "yes ma'am," because it is easier.

And then she does the thing she was always going to do. She reaches into that bag, digs past the food, and somewhere in her own purse finds a μανταρίνι, a mandarin that was in there somehow, that I did not order and cannot explain. She presses it into his hand through the window.

«Πάρε. Για το δρόμο. Να 'σαι καλά, αγόρι μου.» Take it. For the road. Bless you, my boy.

He looks at the mandarin in his palm like he is not sure what just happened to him. She pats his hand, satisfied. She found her person, and she fed him. She always finds her person.

«Αύριο.» The machine that takes the money by itself, no boy at all. I am not going to tell her. I am just going to let her keep looking.