Chocolate Malt

My order has been placed and now I wait. Exercising patience isn’t easy when waves of ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ crash around me-others receiving their orders. I play with my napkin and take another look at the menu even though I am certain that I have chosen well-tried and tested. In the booth across from me are four teenagers. Their body language leads me to believe that they are on a double date. One of the boys must have ID as he is tentatively sipping on a pint of lager. Every now and then he puts the glass down closer to his friend, who then ducks his head behind a menu and takes a surreptitious gulp. I realise that I have become a little too interested in the group and I silently remind myself to look away.

On the street outside a hen and stag group meet-a flurry of hot pink sashes and shirtless torsos. Once the obligatory peck on the cheek is over the hen’s friends seem keen to move on to their next venue of choice. The stags make a surprisingly half hearted attempt at tagging along before turning to head off in the opposite direction.

I turn my attention to the bar area and spot the woman who took my order, she’s carrying a large tray and sitting proudly in the middle is my order.They approach in slow motion and I can’t avert my eyes. From here the unsuspecting bystander could be forgiven for thinking that I had ordered a dessert. Served in a tall knickerbocker glory glass and topped with a generous hat of whipped cream. The cream is tinted green and it clashes deliciously with the shiny red cocktail cherry. It looks minty but is not and it tastes heavenly when combined with the rainbow coloured sprinkles.

My thick shake is served with a straw and a spoon. The first few sips are wonderful-I take a deep breath and pay attention as my taste buds do all the talking. I want my drink to last. It does that thing where for ages it looks as though the milkshake is not disappearing and then all of a sudden I can see light through the glass. I know that I need to stop drinking if it is to remain with me in the moment and not become a memory. All too soon the slurpy straw noises start-too much air (sad face). At the bottom of the glass is a generous helping of chocolate chips. I scoop them up with the spoon and let them melt on my tongue. I can see table top through the bottom of my glass but still I scrape the cloudy sides-waste not, want not.

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Amanda Bird

Amanda Bird

Amanda has always thought of herself as an armchair traveller, and since early childhood books and stories have provided the portal to other worlds. Her love of reading sparked a passion for writing and she has been writing stories since... a very long time ago! She now lives in Hove, and the view allows space for her imagination to roam.
Amanda Bird

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