Saturday morning birthdays

It was supposed to be my birthday today, but my apartment was quiet. I opened the sliding door and stood outside on the porch. Saturday mornings were weaker than other days. Sunlight filtered through early spring leaves and the birds sang circular songs.

I decided that I should have a happy birthday and stepped inside again. The table was wooden and blank. A cake might decorate it, I thought - a vanilla cake, with buttercream frosting. A cake and some party banners and balloons, for my 18th birthday, and maybe some candles.

I would buy a cake, I decided. I did not know how to bake one.  

It had just rained but the sky was a perilous blue with wisps of ozonous grey. A snail trailed its mucus in a dotted line across the concrete path. I hesitantly stepped over it, and it continued moving across with a determination. 

Mindful of the gaps between the concrete slabs, I reached the bakery soon after. The doorbell jangled with my intrusion.

“Hello,” I said, to no one in particular, The counter was empty. Without a response, I stepped towards the display case. 

I recoiled as I saw something strange in the glass. Mortified, I touched my face. Was this me?

I tried to remember when it had changed but I could not recall it doing so. It did not feel like mine. I touched the glass again, curiously, and it moved when I did.

A bad night’s sleep, I thought.

“Good morning.” said a voice from behind me.

A young man dressed in light blue with cheerful eyes greeted me as I turned, startled. He was holding a square box, and walked past me to set it down on the counter.

“Good morning.” I replied, my voice unusually rough. I coughed into my palm. “I’m looking for a cake. For… for my birthday. Do you have any birthday cakes?”

The man’s mouth curved upwards as I said this. “We do have cakes for birthdays.” he replied, voice light, and reached for the box. “This one’s fresh-baked.”

I approached the counter and looked at the cake through the plastic. “This will do.” I said suddenly, as if rehearsed, and frowned. “It’ll do.” I repeated, and coughed into my palm again. “It’s vanilla, isn’t it?”

He frowned, and then smiled. “Yes.” he said, “It’s vanilla.”

I offered a smile and took the box.

The way home was delightful and unfamiliar. As well as I knew these houses, these trees, these birds, I gazed at them still with youthful eyes. The snail, I noticed, had not moved very far from where he had been before, now trailing in circles.

I opened the door and set the box down on the table, and with excitement ushered the cake out until it stood proudly there, vanilla and buttercream.

I stood there for some time, looking at the cake.

It seemed that I had forgotten something, though I could not say what.