The weather can’t seem to make up its mind.

One day, I’ll catch part of a baseball game on the radio and note that it’s being played in football weather, the mid-thirties. The next day, I’m searching for the black cut-offs I stored in a lidded plastic box for the last seven months because the mercury is pushing eighty.

Such is spring in Chicago.

Yesterday saw gusting winds that could send a kite into the trees, but the sky was sunny and the atmosphere’s sweet warm breath could be felt on my face.

I had a doctor’s appointment that took me to the professional building in a nearby suburban mall, and I felt like treating myself without exercising my credit card.

I’m not a coffee drinker and had no interest in sit-down dining, although most restaurants at the mall had opened up to serve a limited capacity. I walked past pretzel concessions and franchises of doughnuts and cinnamon buns.

I remembered seeing a Shake Schack as I meandered past department stores and specialty kiosks on my way to the north side of the mall. As if programmed as my destination, on my way back to the parking lot, I found myself standing in front their ordering window.

Perfect. I’ll have a vanilla shake.

I paid in cash, then waited in the outside café area for my made-to-order treat.

I smiled at the other patrons. They all had their stories, I imagined, why they decided a burger or shake was just what they needed now.

I toyed with the idea that I might consume only half of the creamy delight and take the rest home to enjoy after dinner. Served in a covered waxed paper cup with straw, impossible to spill, the shake could easily make it back to my car. But would it?

I found a bench in the sun and began sucking the straw. The shake was the perfect consistency. Thick but not impossible to pull through the straw. As I drank the shake, I occasionally looked at the outside of the cup and tried to gauge how much had been consumed, how much was left. I wanted this experience to last.

I reveled in the light scent of vanilla, laughing to myself at the common advice many home sellers receive from their agents. If you want a contract, fill your house with the aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or vanilla. People just love the scent of vanilla.

When I was twelve, my bestie and I greeted warm summer nights by catching lightning bugs in jars. (We’d punch holes in the metal lids to give them air, not really taking into account the trauma captivity had on their lifespan.) We also consumed a lot of root beer floats.

We found several different brands of root beer to be acceptable but were very particular about using Breyer’s vanilla ice cream, not a boutique label but one of the better options available from the Jewel.

We giggled as we found ourselves making slurping noises with our straws or, propelled by the carbonation in the root beer, tried to belch out tunes for the other to identify. At twelve, I thought belching out a song to be a kind of art form.

After fifteen minutes or so of sitting and slurping in the sun, I decided to head back to my car. It was in B-3. I was very deliberate about memorizing the location in the ginormous parking lot.

After I situated myself behind the wheel and checked my phone for messages, I brought the paper cup close to my face and drew on the straw. I heard the sound of air. Too little shake left to be worth saving for later, I thought.

I took the plastic lid off the cup and ran the tip of my plastic straw along the inside surface. Without thinking, a quiet smile came over me, then widened.

Consuming a shake or a float until the sound of the straw coming up empty against the bottom of your paper cup tells you when you’re finished is no small thing.