The Birthday Weather

The chime went off again. Same as yesterday. Same as last week.

I wiped down the counter and looked over my shoulder at the wiring box behind the register. Little plastic box, green light blinking. Nobody at the window. Nobody in the lot.

"Knock it off," I told it.

It didn't knock it off. It dinged one more time, bright and stupid, like somebody had walked up and then vanished. The sensor on the drive-through window did that sometimes. Heat, birds, whatever. But this one sounded different. Fuller. Like an actual doorbell, one of those old-timey ding-dongs, and it came from inside the box, not the window.

My name's Kimmie. I'm thirty-five, and I run the morning shift at Solstice Brew, which is a kiosk, not a shop. Kiosk is a fancy word for a shack with a window and an espresso machine that costs more than my car. We sit on the corner across from the plaza in town, four blocks off the water. Mornings smell like salt and fried dough from the stands down the street. Afternoons smell like burnt milk because Diego gets busy.

The chime went off a fourth time.

"Okay, seriously."

Diego, who does afternoons and shows up early every day to gossip, swears the thing is haunted. He says the last barista who worked this shift, some guy named Tomás who moved to Mérida in like 2021, left the chime behind as a retirement gift. I don't buy it. But it's a good bit and I use it on customers.

* * *

Zac pulls in at 7:40 every morning. Has for over a year. Silver car, dented on the back fender, radio always going. He's a meteorologist at the little weather office up on the bluff. Forty-eight years old, gray coming in at the temples, forearms like someone who actually goes outside sometimes instead of just reading radar all day.

He's my flat white guy. That's how I thought of him for a long time. Flat white guy. Then one day he brought me a pastry from the panadería and I thought, well, that's not a flat white thing to do.

I heard his car before I saw it. You get to know the engines. His has a little rattle on cold start, clears up after a block.

I leaned out the window. "Morning, weatherman."

"Morning, Kimmie." He idled up. Sunglasses on. He pushed them up into his hair, which he doesn't need to do at 7:40 in the shade, but he does it anyway and I've noticed, sue me. "Flat white. And whatever you're having, because I can hear your machine begging."

"The machine is fine. The machine is haunted."

"The machine?"

"Not the machine. The doorbell." I pointed back over my shoulder with my thumb. "That stupid chime keeps going off. Nobody there. Four times this morning."

He laughed. He's got a good laugh, low, and he doesn't do it enough. "The chime? The one that sounds like a church in a cartoon?"

"That's the one."

"Could be the wiring."

"Could be. Or it's Tomás."

"Who's Tomás?"

"Old barista. Haunted this shack before me. Moved away, left the chime, never left the chime." I was already steaming his milk. "Diego says Tomás rings it when he's bored. I say Diego watches too many dumb videos on his phone."

"So the ghost of a barista is haunting a drive-through coffee kiosk." He said it flat, like he was reading a forecast. "Thirty percent chance of spooky."

"See, that's the problem with you weather guys. Everything's a percentage."

"Everything IS a percentage."

I handed him the flat white through the window. He took it and didn't drive off right away. He does that. Sits there. Other customers pull away the second the cup touches their hand. Zac hangs. Rolls the window down another inch. We end up talking about nothing. The humidity. The potholes on the road to the beach. Whether the festival committee is going to set off fireworks at a decent hour this year or at two in the morning like animals.

That morning he paid and then just looked at me a second too long. Not creepy long. Long like he was going to say something and then filed it away instead.

"You've got," he started, then stopped. Tapped the roof of his car twice. "You've got milk foam on your chin."

I wiped. Was there foam? Maybe. Don't check. "Thanks for that."

"Anytime." He grinned and pulled out, rattle and all.

I stood there at the window as an idiot watching his car go around the corner. Then the chime went off again and I jumped about a foot.

"NOT NOW, TOMÁS!"

This is the thing about me. I've been back in this town six years. Before that I baked in a real bakery in a bigger city for a guy who wore sandals to food safety inspections. I came back when my mom got sick, she got better, and I just never left. Now I do all the baking for the kiosk out of the little back oven and sell out of conchas by nine most days. It's not a career. It's a life. I kept telling myself those were different things and I should pick one.

I had a fling once, when I was twenty-three, with another baker. Tim. It lasted maybe four months, and ended the way those things end, everybody goes back to their own shift and nobody's mad. Since then, nothing much. A date here and there. Guys who talked about themselves for an hour and then looked at the check like it owed them money.

Zac never talks about himself for an hour. That's part of it. I know he dated somebody at the weather office years back, a colleague, it ran about a year, ended fine, they still say hi at the pier. He told me that once, just dropped it into conversation about the tide charts, casual as anything, like he was letting me know the field was clear without making it a thing.

Anyway. My birthday was coming up. The same day as the festival, which everybody in town knows, which means half the town says happy birthday to me and the other half forgets because there are mariachis everywhere.

* * *

The week rolled on. Chime rang. I blamed Tomás. Zac laughed at the bit every single time, which I noticed, because you notice who laughs at your bits.

Thursday he pulled in and didn't order.

"Flat white?" I said.

"Actually," he said, "hold the coffee."

I looked at him. He had his sunglasses up in his hair again. His ears were red. Forty-eight years old and his ears go red like a schoolkid's when he's working up to something.

"Hold the coffee," I repeated.

"I have a question." He drummed his fingers on the window ledge. "The festival. Saturday. Are you working it?"

"Kiosk's closed for the festival. Diego took the shift before he knew it was my birthday, now he feels bad, I told him go dance with your cousins, I'll survive."

"Right. Right, the festival." He nodded like I'd confirmed something on a chart. "So. Hypothetically. If a person wanted to show you a good birthday, without making it, you know. A whole thing. A formal thing."

I set down my rag. Behind me, the chime went off.

Both of us looked at the box.

"Tomás has opinions," I said.

Zac cracked up. Full laugh, head back. God, that laugh.

"Okay," he said, when he got it back. "Hypothetically, that person would ask you to meet him at the plaza Saturday evening. There's a stand that sells marquesitas. The guy with the fan, do you know the one, he does the crispy crepe thing with the cheese."

"I know the stand."

"That person would buy you one. And walk around. And that's it. That is the entire plan. No pressure. If it's weird, it's just two coworkers of the road getting dessert."

"Coworkers of the road," I repeated.

"You know what I mean."

I did. I knew exactly what I meant too, and my face was doing something about it, so I turned and pretended to check the pastry case.

"Zac."

"Yeah."

"You're asking me out."

"I'm asking you to eat a marquesita." A beat. "And if you want it to be more than that, then I'm asking you out."

The chime rang again. Loud. Twice. Ding-dong.

"Tomás approves," I said.

"Tomás is a wise ghost."

"I'll be there. Seven. Wear something that isn't a windbreaker."

"That's my best windbreaker."

"Seven, Zac."

He grinned, tapped the roof twice again, and pulled out. I watched the car go. Then I turned around and the chime rang one more time, soft, almost polite.

"Okay, buddy," I said. "We're even now!"

Friday morning. Gray sky, the kind that means rain by two. I knew the forecast without checking, because I know who to ask.

Chime rang at 7:40. Silver car, dented fender, radio going.

"Flat white guy," I said.

"Kimmie," he said.

"You're early."

"I'm not. You're late."

I looked at the clock. 7:41. He was right, which was annoying. I got his flat white going and he leaned on the window ledge the way he does, forearms on the paint, watching the street like it owes him money.

"So," he said. "Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

"Seven. Plaza. I've been rehearsing."

"Rehearsing what?"

"How to eat a marquesita in a way that looks dignified."

"You own that," I said, and handed him the cup.

He paid. He didn't leave. That was new. Usually he's gone by 7:45, off to the bluff, up in his office watching the sky like it's a soap opera. Today he just stood there.

"Can I ask you something?" he said. "It's not a line. I've been thinking about it since Thursday."

"Ask."

"What do you do? For fun. When you're not here."

I laughed. Actual laugh, out loud, surprised me.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just. Nobody's asked me that in about a decade."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. People ask what I do for work. That's it. You're looking at the whole show, Zac. I bake, I go home, I sleep, I come back."

"That can't be it."

"That's it."

He looked at me over the cup. I kept wiping the counter, because if I stopped wiping the counter I'd have to look back and I wasn't ready for that.

"Okay but there's more," he said. "There has to be. Everybody's got a thing. I read tide charts for fun, Kimmie. I'm not exactly setting the bar high here."

"You read tide charts for fun?"

"Every night."

"That's sad."

"I know. That's why I'm asking. Solidarity."

I stopped wiping. Fine. He got me.

"I bake," I said. "At home. For me. Not for sale. Which sounds insane, right, I bake all day and then I go home and bake more."

"No, it doesn't sound insane!"

"It does a little."

"It doesn't. I watch radar after work. We're the same person."

"We are not the same person. You watch radar, that's a job with extra steps. I bake bread nobody eats."

"Somebody should eat it."

"It's not for somebody. That's the point. It's mine. I put on music and I make dough and I don't have to sell it to anybody or explain it or put it in a case with a little sign." I shrugged. "It's the only part of the day that's just for me."

He was quiet a second. The radio in his car played something with trumpets in it. Down the street Diego rolled up on his bike, rang his little bell, parked it out front.

"What kind of music?" Zac asked.

"Huh?"

"When you bake. What kind."

"Why do you want to know?"

"So I know what I'm interrupting tomorrow when I show up."

"You're not showing up at my house, you're showing up at the plaza."

"I'm asking hypothetically."

"You're a very hypothetical man."

"It's my best quality." He finished the flat white. He does it in about three sips, like it's a shot, always has. "Conchas. That's your thing, right? You sell out by nine."

"Nine, most days."

"What's your favorite? To make. Not to sell."

Nobody had ever asked me that either. The stuff people ask you at a coffee window, it's all about them. Oat milk or regular. Hot or iced. Can you hurry. Zac was standing there in his windbreaker asking me about dough like it was the weather.

"The ones with the chocolate shell," I said. "The scoring. You know how the shell cracks into little squares?"

"Yeah."

"There's a way to score it so it cracks perfect. Takes practice. Most bakers don't bother, they just blob it on. But when it cracks right..." I stopped. I was getting loud. Diego was grinning at me from the other window. "When it cracks right it's just. It's the best thing. It's my favorite thing."

"I can't wait to see it," he said.

"See what?"

"Tomorrow. Whatever you wear. Whatever you do with your hair. The version of you that isn't behind this window."

I didn't have anything to say to that. So I said, "Your cup's empty."

"I noticed."

"Okay."

"Okay." He stood there one more second. Then he tapped the roof of the car twice, which I've seen him do a hundred times, always twice, and got in. The radio got louder. He rolled the window down.

"Kimmie."

"What."

"Thanks for answering. The fun question. I know it wasn't a great answer but I'm glad it was the real one."

"Who says it was the real one?"

"You do. You got loud about the shell."

"Get out of here, Zac."

He went. Up the hill, toward the bluff. I watched until the road bent.

* * *

Diego sidled over while I restocked the case. Diego is twenty-six, sweet, nosy as a raccoon.

"So Saturday," he said.

"What about it."

"You got a date."

"It's not a date. It's a marquesita."

"It's a date. He's buying you food at a festival. That's a date."

"It's dessert. With a coworker of the road."

"A what?"

"Never mind."

"He got here early today," Diego said. "He's never early. He's like clockwork. I know because I use his car to time my bike ride."

"You time your commute off Zac's car?"

"Every day. 7:40, silver car, I leave the house at 7:42. You just wrecked my whole system."

"Sorry."

"You're not sorry." He grinned and went back to his steamer. Then he stuck his head around the divider. "What are you gonna wear?"

"I don't know. A dress, maybe."

"A dress! Has he ever seen you in a dress?"

"Diego."

"Nothing. It's nice. It's a nice thing." He meant it too, that's the thing about Diego, he doesn't have a mean gear. "You deserve a nice thing."

"Go steam your milk."

* * *

That night I baked. Obviously.

It was raining by then, real rain, hammering the tin over the patio. I had the oven going and the radio on and a bottle of something that used to be wine. I made conchas with the chocolate shell and I scored them slow, each line, and I thought about what Zac said. The version of you that isn't behind this window.

Here's what I figured out, kneading dough at nine at night with rain coming down. I don't know who that version is. I've been behind the window so long the window's kind of become me. Flat white guy shows up, I know his order, I know his car, I know his ears go red. He knows my birthday, my chime ghost, my shell scoring. That's a lot of knowing. That's maybe most of the knowing I've got.

And tomorrow I put on a dress and step out from behind it.

I pulled the tray out. The shells had cracked perfect. Every one of them. Little squares, clean, like graph paper. Best batch in months, and nobody to eat it, because it was mine, because it was just for me.

I ate one standing at the counter. It was the best thing I'd made all year.

Then my phone buzzed. Zac.