Even though my black coffee had become lukewarm fifteen minutes already, I took a long drink. In any case, I was hardly tasting it. Invoices, past-due emails, and a tightness in my chest that I couldn’t identify but had been carrying for weeks filled my mind. My four-year-old, Nolan, tugged at my sleeve while his large hazel eyes gazed up at me.
“Milkshake?” he said in a gentle, upbeat tone.
What a trivial request. However, it struck me like a lifeboat during a tempest. As I looked at the pile of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, my phone rang with yet another unwelcome work call. Then I turned to face Nolan again.
I forced a smile as I answered, “Yeah, buddy.” “Let’s go get that milkshake for you.”
We went to O’Malley’s Diner via car. It was one of those locations that had been forgotten by time. The linoleum floor was a checkerboard of yellowish tiles, the booths were a faded crimson, and the jukebox in the corner hadn’t been in working order since the Clinton era. However, their milkshakes were the greatest in town.