September 2023

I am at the coffee shop three months after my father’s death, when I develop a strong thirst for an extra foamy cappuccino.

I decide to make it myself, directly on the stove, like he used to. In the brief moment before I head from the front door to the kitchen at the back, I lean against a wall and watch the scene, my head resting on a frame of purple interlocking triangles. Inside our coffee shop, it is nice and warm, the air redolent with oven-hot scones, croissants, buns, cakes, doughnuts, cookies, pies, and coffees of every brew and flavour. I move around for a while, returning a pleasant nod from one customer and offering my compliments to another. It is heads, shoulders and moving hands hovering over the mahogany table tops. I maneuver the spaces around the tables, careful not to knock my fragile knees into a chair, or worse, bump into a barista carrying a customer’s order.

Most of the customers around are elders; friends and associates of my father. I try not to catch them staring at me. I see the sympathetic expressions on their faces, the noiseless sighs they heave before taking another sip of coffee. When I catch their eyes, I manage a smile as bright as it is fake. Old Roger, with his characteristic solemn expression, sees me and raises both eyebrows in acknowledgement. My lips curve into a small smile. Like always, he is alone at his table, eating a large doughnut with his pumpkin spice latte. His spindly fingers hold on tight to the day’s paper.

I stop by the espresso machine on the back counter and retrieve the transparent pot of roasted arabica beans before strolling into the warm kitchen. There are three workers—my father’s employees—moving tirelessly, each in separate stages of pastry making. I exchange a few greetings with each of them; Harold, a bushy-haired man with a perpetual about-to-sneeze look on his face, Wale, a younger man whose woolen mittens dangle from his yellow apron, and good Sylvia, a lifelong friend of my father. I put a small pot of milk to the boil. Then, I fetch a handful of rough coffee beans from the handy little pot and set them on a tiny mortar, ready to pestle them to an airy smoothness.

Five minutes later, I tuck my hair behind an ear and put down the pestle, satisfied with the results despite the burn I feel across my upper arm. Tiny coffee particles float in the air and tickle my nostrils. Harold sneezes ever-so-softly in the distance. I cart the fine powder into the espresso machine, and return to the now bubbling milk, suddenly at a loss for what to do next.

Soon, the milk spills over. I know it is not supposed to spill over. But my mind goes blank. There is someone else standing with my feet, watching the boiling milk dance energetically with my eyes, hearing the sharp hiss of the fire below as it protests contact with liquid using my ears, and sniffing the aroma of baking dough and boiling milk with my nose.

My father would know what to do next.

This is the strange thing about sudden death; the way it matures those left behind. You don’t know how to deal with this foreign emotion that arrives as a visitor, but stubbornly overstays its welcome. You don’t realize how coping with the loss has impressed on you the urgent need to be serious, to smile no longer, and to shut yourself from the world. The pain sears your insides, and attacks your throat with the bitter, constricting sensation that always comes before the tears. But you cannot cry anymore, because it is a luxury that the expectations of well-wishers have gently snatched. You master the art of feeling many things at once, thinking many thoughts at the same time. How you need to appear before people as the right amount of sad, how the last time you drank coffee was at dinner, three months ago with your dad, how it spilled copiously on your white t-shirt and scorched your chest, how hard he laughed when you complained that coffee only ever spilled when you had white shirts on, how you will never again hear that warmhearted, rasping laughter, how hard it is to accept he just went to bed and never woke up. You will hold on to every memory for the longest, every frown and whisper, every goodbye hug, and every eyelash. And you will wish you didn’t have to mature this way.

I take a deep gasp and a few steps back. No one seems to notice my almost breakdown so I grope for a cane chair nearby. The heat of the kitchen, burning milk, baking food and all, strikes at my face and neck. I motion to Sylvia to seek her help, seeing as she’s loaded the last tray of doughnuts into the oven. She nods, dusts her flour-coated hands on her green tartan apron before approaching me.

I like Sylvia. She is the most relatable despite being nearly thrice my age. She stands before me in an instant. She has bright blue eyes, a small, friendly stature and a perfect spray of freckles.

“Holy sassafras!” Sylvia exclaims. It is hard to believe that she’d not noticed the milk on fire till then. “First of all, turn it off.” She takes two steps to the large burner, and puts off the stove with a flourish. She does the same with the whirring espresso maker. “How have you forgotten that, kiddo?”

I laugh nervously, and she joins in, clapping me on the shoulder. “I don’t know… I was thinking of him.” My nostrils flare as I gasp again, ending with a semi-conscious shrug.

“Your father?”

I nod. Who else?

She takes my hand and squeezes it. Her touch is dry and intimate, and when she lets go, there are specks of flour on my wrist. She draws out a cane chair for herself. There is a certain sweetness to her persona, one that reminds you of your favourite ice cream flavour

“Listen, D. Your father was a most kind and loving man. He lived an extraordinarily kind and peaceful life. And he passed away the way he’d lived. He’d want you to move on.”

At her words, a bitter constricting sensation attacks my throat. My grief is fresh like newly-ploughed earth. There is a picture frame of my father right on the opposite wall. In the picture, I see the vibrant smile my father always had. The warm tenderness of his sunken black eyes. The shadow of his widow’s peak covered with a black beanie. The space between his eyebrows that perfectly accommodated my lips in my forehead kisses. He liked it when I jumped on him, even as I grew older and bigger. When I close my eyes, I see him attempt to make foam art of my face in a latte cup. The way his eyes dart to and from my face. The vestiges of youthful strength in his movements. His excellent hand-eye coordination. His vibrant smile as he tells me to put the stove back on, and make my extra foamy cappuccino.

I draw closer to Sylvia. She gathers me in her arms and strokes my hair as the stream of tears swallow my voice, as I cry my heart out for the first time since my father died.

Fadilah Ali is a Nigerian writer living in Edo State. A Best of the Net nominee, her work has appeared in Alternate Route, Isele Magazine, and Overtly Lit among others. Find her on Twitter @/bythealmondtree.

Sometimes the Zipperman likes to think that his job is sacred; so predictable in its routine, that it has become a solemn ritual. Every day like clockwork, he climbs into the driver’s cabin of his tram and sets the machinery in motion while San Diego still sleeps. And then, at a speed of 3.8 miles per hour, he rumbles his way along the arched spine of the Coronado Bridge, soaking up the world in slow-motion.

Every morning, it is the same story, como siempre. He knows the route better than anyone; five lanes of traffic, two eastbound and two westbound, with one center lane that changes direction twice a day. His job is simple: unzip the center lane in the morning. Zip it up again in the evening. Sleep, and then repeat. Muy fácil, his boss told him, because the lane-changer machine runs on autopilot.

Even still, the Zipperman knows that his job is important; vital even, to the circulation of traffic. He is the one who changes the meridian between the opposing lanes, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, to indicate the shift in direction. He is the man who moves concrete dividers from one side of the lane to the other, to accommodate rush hour traffic.

Sometimes, he likes to think of himself as the keeper of some ravenous beast. A snapping turtle, maybe, or a Gila Monster. He is the one who rides this hungry reptile. ¡Tranquilo! ¡Tranquilo! He is the guiding hand that steers it safely from Barrio Logan to Tidelands Park.

Along the way, the monster devours everything in its path. The concrete dividers disappear into the mouth of the tram, and underneath him the machine thrums and rumbles, digesting… Behind him, the dividers reemerge from the back of the tram, this time on the opposite side of the lane.

The pace is slow, the asphalt rugged and sunworn, but the Zipperman prefers his work this way. Every so often, he descends from the tram and clears the road with his litter picker, skewering styrofoam like shish kebabs. Clearing roadkill that threatens to obstruct his progress.

Across the bay, trains rumble their way through the railyard, and the metal cranes dip their beaks towards the water. They are always thirsty, he thinks. Never sated. Beasts of perpetual motion.

Ahead of him, the highway yawns onward.

He has lost his name, over the years, in the faded white lines. In the rolling gray asphalt. It seems like a souvenir from another lifetime, no vale la pena recordar. On the hottest days the asphalt trembles, and this, combined with the stench of gasoline, is enough to make his eyes water. In a way, it reminds him of home; the way his abuela used to fry jalapeños over the stovetop till the air was picante, strong enough to peel the skin from one’s face. The way his abuelo came stomping in through the door, shaking mud from his work boots. Leather hands, like gloves, from construction work. The road will play tricks on your eyes, chico. That’s what his abuelo always told him. Espejismos y espejos.

Sometimes, it hurts to look at the concrete, so the Zipperman watches the people instead.

Inbound: drivers smack their fingers on the steering wheels. People smoke their Camels out the windows, flipping their cigarette butts over the bird spikes, watching the smoke spiral down towards the ocean below. They beep at him sometimes, but he stares straight ahead, ¿entiende? Focused on his work.

Outbound: the gringo tourists scream by, headed for Coronado Beach. Who goes swimming, six o’clock in the evening? That is what he wants to know. Who wants to hit that freezing water so late in the day? Gringos, apparently.

He sees them hanging out the window sometimes, the kids with their pasty sunscreen noses, the parents with their Lucha Libre t-shirts, and he waves to them sometimes. They never notice him, because their eyes are on the road, but he likes to think that they would wave back, if they could.

The Zipperman has come across a lot of strange things in his time. Like the little girl who tried to ride her bike along the shoulder of the bridge. Like the woman who flashed him through the car window (it was the closest anyone came to waving). Like that roadkill armadillo that was stinking up the road. Ay guacala. He buried that armadillo in a Taco Bell takeout bag, because that was the only proper burial shroud he could find amongst the litter on the bridge. He tucked the armadillo safely away in that leftover tortilla shell, and he crossed la bendición over his chest, then he said a word of prayer and dropped el pobrecito over the side.

Descansa en paz, hermanito.

Sometimes, the Zipperman sees a sight that will change his life forever – like the woman smoking by the side of the bridge.

He was zippering up the lane for the evening when he spotted her; just a lone silhouette against the sky. She had lined up a whole caravan of Camels on the railing and she was smoking them, one by one, taking one huff after another as she studied the inbound clouds, breathing out as she tossed the butts over the edge…

Her car was parked slantways over the fifth lane, the engine purring, but she didn’t seem inclined to climb back inside. Instead, she ran her fingers over the bird spikes and gazed out at the road sign – San Diego City Limit. Population: 1,130,000 – as if she was imagining how they would need to update the sign tomorrow. Population: 1, 129,999.

The woman looked like a waitress; the apron tied tight around her stomach was a dead giveaway, the strings cutting deep into her belly fat. She looked like the sort of woman who would stand behind the register all day, taking orders; Chile lime sauce or chipotle? You want extra cheese, what kind?

She looked like the sort of woman who would clean the tables with a washrag, and push her janitor cart like the stroller she’d always wanted but never got, cause she never had kids or got married even. She looked like the sort of woman who sprays the plate glass with Windex and wipes it clean, the sort of woman who breathes fog on the window just to draw pictures in the condensation, who watches people pass on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to stop and notice her; the mannequin in the window.

The Zipperman waved as he passed, but he didn’t stop the zipper machine, and the woman waved back, but she didn’t stop smoking. Instead, the Zipperman kept on rumbling down the road, lifting each divider and setting it down again. And the woman kept on picking up her cigarettes and flicking them over the side, and though he longed to look back, the Zipperman kept staring straight ahead, even as he trundled his way down the bridge towards the 8, because he couldn’t bear to see what would happen when the woman reached the end of her chain.

Julian Riccobon (he/him) is a writer, editor, and artist of Italian/Panamanian descent, and the Managing Director of Polyphony Lit, an international literary magazine for teen writers and editors. His work has been published in The Acentos Review, Flash Fiction Online, Huizache: The Magazine of a New America, and Rumble Fish Quarterly, among other places, and his favorite genres to write are contemporary fiction, magical realism, and historical fiction. He is currently drafting a magical realism novel about a bunch of loco neighbors who live together in a rowhouse in San Diego.