Across from the Torrid in the mall, there is a Cinnabon. It feels strategic. Almost cruel. Like whoever planned out how to lease these two particular spaces in the mall was a sadistic fat-shamer. Someone who wanted to conduct a social experiment to see what, if any, fat girl could possibly resist a taste of the bun before or after her excursion into the Torrid. Surely, someone must be getting their jollies out of observing it—for there were cameras all around to document the common phenomenon. And yet, the person most frequently tasked with watching the “running gag” unfold was Ramon, the primary employee at Cinnabon #1053, as it was known to corporate.

Ramon had started working there about five years ago, and had never known a time when the Torrid wasn’t across from his workplace. Naturally, Cinnabon wasn’t his first choice in terms of a “profession,” but it was the only business in this small Northern California town that seemed willing to hire him, “foreign” as he was. Never mind that he had been born in Nevada. He thought he might have better luck in California—that is, with regard to being accepted for his “brownness,” but he had chosen the wrong part of the state, and had only done so because he had been foolish enough to follow a girl there. A gringa who was only “trying him on” as part of a “phase,” and had no intention of continuing things with him once she moved back to where she was from. Ramon wished he hadn’t been so blinded by “love” (i.e., pussy) so that he might have seen that before he uprooted his life, however “small” it was, to chase after her.

And now, as a result, he was marooned at this Cinnabon. Sort of like Saul Goodman/Jimmy McGill/Gene Takavic. Except that, at the very least, “Gene” had being white going for him. Which is probably why he was able to ascend to a managerial position (apart from being middle-aged). Ramon, on the other hand, was trapped in the role of “crew member,” which meant, of course, that he was responsible for everything: food prep, cleaning equipment, taking orders, ringing customers up at the register, pest control (not just of the human variety), whatever. But Ramon supposed he couldn’t complain too much, for he only worked the shift that drew in the least amount of foot traffic. Save for those errant few girls coming out of the Torrid.

At first, Ramon wasn’t affected in the least by the sight of these women. In fact, most of the time he was too high out of his mind to notice much of anything beyond what was directly in front of him. However, over time, between managing his “dosage” and building up a general tolerance for the ganj, he could start to see them more clearly than ever. As in really see them. Their sadness, their emptiness—their sheer and utter loneliness. To that point, it always seemed odd to Ramon that the women who went into the Torrid were usually alone, never going with friends, or even a sister or mother. They were just perennially shopping alone…and then wandering over to the Cinnabon in their state of blatant dissatisfaction. Almost zombie-like. Though a meaner person might say the way they mindlessly gravitated toward the “kiosk” was more “bovine” than zombie. But Ramon was not that kind of person.

To be sure, although he had typically only been with skinny white women for most of his dating history, he couldn’t deny his attraction to some of the patrons that frequented Cinnabon #1053. While most of the wanderers from the Torrid would opt for the “Classic Roll,” there was one woman in particular who would always go “hog wild” (so to speak/pardon the expression) with her order. Not only would she get the far more decadent and caloric Caramel PecanBon, but she would also add an order of “Center of the Rolls,” which was a cup filled with just that: only the centers of the Cinnabon rolls. To top it off, she would also get some CinnaSweeties and a Chillatta.

Thus, it wasn’t surprising that Ramon watched her expand before his very eyes as she continued to show up almost every day at the exact same time. And he should have perhaps guessed sooner that part of the reason she began showing up more frequently was because of him. Maybe most women trying to “land a man” wouldn’t have been so bombastic about their ordering, but that was, in hindsight, what stood out to him about her compared to everyone else. Not only that, it made him admire her boldness. The way she didn’t give a fuck about how she was perceived by him—not feigning the “dainty flower” shtick. It was refreshing. And so was her body, for that matter.

Once Ramon realized that there was more to her constant appearances at Cinnabon #1053 than just the Cinnabons themselves, he started to smoke less weed. Which, in turn, made him more self-conscious in front of her. She whose name he eventually found out was Kelly. A unisex name, they say. Something he mentioned to her out loud upon first learning of this key piece of “identity” information. And yes, he felt quite embarrassed that he had actually said something so awkward. He could have responded in a hundred better ways, but, his self-consciousness took over and that was what got blurted out. Miraculously, however, Kelly didn’t appear to take offense. As he understood later, she had probably been told far worse things in her life than a comment about a unisex name. It probably didn’t even register on her insult scale, so mild was it in comparison to what others had lobbed at her for her entire life: fatso, fat bitch, lard ass, chunky monkey, Hefty bag, Fudgey the Whale, Jelly Belly—things like that.

The more that Ramon got to know her through their increasingly lengthy exchanges at the checkout counter, the more he comprehended the extent of the savagery she’d been exposed to her entire life. Simply for being who she was. The talks only got longer as the months went by, what with no one else really ordering Cinnabons. Again, his shift was the least busy time, and he liked it that way. Initially, he wondered if Kelly even had a job, since she seemed so loose about being at the mall in the ether period between morning and afternoon, but she explained to him at some point that she had been blessed with a “shit ton” of money from a lawsuit after she got hit by a U-Haul truck. Ever since then, she admitted, she basically sat around all day “just getting fatter.” Ramon laughed at that. He laughed at a lot of things she said. In truth, he couldn’t ever remember a time when a woman had been able to make him laugh so hard. And it hurt him—actually gut-wrenched him—to think that so many people had overlooked her greatness merely because of her exterior.

As the two became closer, Ramon found himself genuinely looking forward to going to work every day, whereas, in the past, it was a constant source of dread and depression (hence, the copious amounts of weed formerly required to be there). So wrapped up in their budding “relationship” was Ramon that he was once again blinded by the reality of what might happen if he kept “stepping over his bounds” so blatantly with a customer. And what happened was the “complaints” started to trickle in about Cinnabon #1053. That there were certain “peculiarities” being reported there. Not least of which was the fact that many customers remarked on standing at the counter for at least ten minutes waiting for someone to materialize. To take note that there was a person waiting to be served. But all that time spent waiting there ended up coming to nothing—nobody ever showed up to take the order. These were the unfortunate “moments” when Ramon had given in to the temptation of “secreting away” with Kelly. In other words, accompanying her to her car to smoke, make out and, on a few occasions, take the risk of having full-on sex. So sure, Ramon wasn’t always there when he should have been. But, in his mind, he felt that he was there when it mattered most. Like prepping dough for the next shift and leaving the space cleaner than when he first arrived. Shouldn’t that have counted for something?

To Franklin, the assistant manager that came in to personally observe Ramon on the job without him being aware of it, no, none of those things mattered. Because Ramon failed in his most basic duty: to be available to serve a customer when they showed up during business hours. Watching customers—especially the slew of them that meandered over from the Torrid directly across—walk away in anger and disappointment over not being able to get what they had been hoping for went against everything that “good business” in general stood for. Ramon’s egregious negligence meant lost sales and, almost as bad, a tarnished reputation. Franklin absolutely had to report this to his higher-ups and recommend that Ramon be fired, effective immediately. Particularly after he noticed the cause of Ramon’s perpetual absenteeism: a “heavy-set” (such a euphemism) woman who would also ping-pong back and forth between the Torrid and the Cinnabon like many of the others. The only difference was, she got service. Of multiple varieties.

The day that Ramon was “unexpectedly” (from his perspective) fired also happened to be the day that Kelly didn’t show up at all for the first time in months. And that, to him, was the more emotionally detrimental blow. He thought that she cared about him—much as he had made the same mistake in thinking that the woman he had followed to California cared about him. But no, it seemed that Kelly had gotten whatever it was she wanted out of Ramon. Perhaps validation that she was, in fact, a hot, desirable person, and that surely others would feel the same way about her if Ramon did. So why settle for “just” Ramon?

Although he begged his employer to let him off with a warning just this once, the damage was done. He was all washed up as a “crew member” at Cinnabon #1053, and any other Cinnabon, for that matter. But what they didn’t bank on was Ramon finagling a cashier job rather easily at, of all places, the Torrid across the way. Even if the loose chatter among the various store employees throughout the mall had him pegged as a “chubby chaser,” which inferred Torrid would be the worst shop for him to be employed by.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Ramon, such “hearsay” was of no concern to Monica, the manager at that location who found it increasingly difficult to unearth willing, er, bodies to work the register. Her guess was that most women didn’t want to be associated with being plus size. Monica herself wasn’t even very large—a size ten, the lowest number that Torrid sold on their racks. And yes, sometimes she marveled at the notion that Marilyn Monroe would be considered “plus size” by the standards of today. Even if the Kardashians had briefly tipped the scales (pardon the pun) in favor of curvier girls for a time. But now, the pendulum was swinging back toward a favoring of the thin. Which meant, undoubtedly, this was part of the reason Monica had been having such an impossible time with hiring people lately.

And so, Ramon it was…Ramon it had to be. What concern was it of Monica’s that his true motive in wanting to work there was in the hope of someday catching sight of Kelly again—whose number he had never even managed to secure. He wondered now if that had been very strategic on her part. He could recall quite a few instances when he had asked her for it, yet Kelly had consistently evaded the request. Perhaps she was much cleverer than he had given her credit for. Perhaps it was all some fetishistic game to her. Fuck the Cinnabon employee for kicks—just to prove she could. Why not?

Then, one day, it finally happened. She walked into the store. Upon seeing him right there in the front, just standing behind the register, it was very apparent to Ramon that she had presumed she would never have to see him again. Never in a million years have to deal with this uncomfortable encounter. Whether or not she had helped get him fired by filing a complaint herself remained a mystery to Ramon…though he definitely wouldn’t put it past her. Whatever the case, he could tell that he was the last person on Earth she would have expected to run into at this moment. It was tantamount to: “Of all the Torrids in all the towns in all the world, he works at mine.” What’s more, it was highly likely that Kelly also made the false assumption that Ramon would be too embarrassed to keep working at the mall in any capacity. But that’s where she had him so wrong, for Ramon’s sense of shame did not exist; his aptitude for indignity was limitless.

Kelly considered just turning on her heel and high-tailing it right out of the store, but she thought better of it. Thought that, yes, she supposed she did owe Ramon an “explanation.” Or at least the courtesy of acknowledgment—both of his presence here and now, and of the fact that what they had shared was real. In its way.

Trudging over to the register, she smiled and greeted him simply with, “Hi.”

Ramon sneered. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

She sighed. “I know I deserve that. But really, I want to explain.”

“Go ahead.”

And then, just as he was finally about to get his vindication, of sorts, a woman approached the counter, totally tone deaf to the intense situation unfolding in front of her. Which is why she gracelessly plunked down her pile of clothes and looked at Ramon expectantly.

When Ramon didn’t make a move to start scanning the items, the woman looked from him to Kelly and then inquired of the latter, “Were you in line or something?”

“Oh no. Go ahead. I was just leaving.” Kelly figured that, on second thought, this was her out. Who was she kidding? She had no “legitimate” reason to offer Ramon that would satisfy him about the “why” of her ghosting. For her, it had run its course, that was all. And yeah, maybe she knew he was going to get fired and that she wouldn’t ever have to run the risk of “happening upon” him in the mall again as a result, but also she had changed her entire mall schedule just to avoid him anyway, no longer appearing in the hours after the morning and before the afternoon. She had become a pre-“evening rush” mall person, arriving there around three and leaving by no later than five to avoid any “hordes.” Not that hordes were really a thing anymore at malls, but still—one never knew.

So Kelly took the out—reflexively and quickly—internally thanking the fellow fat woman in her head for creating a diversion that would allow her such an unexpected parachute to escape the awkwardness. Besides, Kelly thought, as she walked over to the Cinnabon to get her usual order, it’s not like skinny guys don’t ghost fat girls all the time once their “curiosity” wanes. If anything, Kelly insisted to herself, she had only beaten him to the punch. But now, she would have to make a vow never to return to this mall whatsoever so as to be extra certain she wouldn’t need to deal with Ramon again. And that was a shame, because it was impossible to find a mall with as much cruel convenience as this one, in terms of placing a Torrid directly across from a Cinnabon.