At first it was a way to kill time after a late shift on a Friday or Saturday night at the Crestmont, when hardly anything is still open, and the parties are all too filled with drunks and stoners to be any kind of enjoyable.
It's two milkshakes and an order of fries to split at Rosie's.
One chocolate shake, one strawberry.
Ketchup for her fries, plain salt for mine.
Then it became a routine.
It was easy.
It was familiar.
It was a safe place when Monet's held too many painful memories for her.
And I didn't drink coffee in those days anyway.
If one of us had a bad day, we'd end up at Rosie's with our milkshakes and fries.
If one of us had a reason to celebrate, we'd end up at Rosie's.
We'd spend countless hours spreading text books and notes around the table.
Sometimes no words would be spoken. They weren't always needed.
There were some constants though.
Always milkshakes, always fries.
She'd drink half her strawberry shake, I'd drink half my chocolate one, and then we'd switch.
Best of both worlds she used to say.
Rosie's will always remind me of better times.
Of a time before my world was turned upside down.
And of a time where she still existed in my world.
Now, I still find myself at Rosie's.
Because I can't bear to break the one connection I have to her.
I can't break our routine.
Even now.
An order of fries in the middle of the table.
A bottle of ketchup too, even though I don't like it.
She did.
Two shakes; one chocolate and one strawberry.
I drink exactly half of my chocolate shake, before sliding it across the table.
And I feel the void of her absence as I retrieve the still full strawberry shake from her side of the table.