Just One More Milkshake

She had said that four hundred times and meant it maybe twice. The booth was warm. The glass came with the metal cup they leave beside it, which is the diner admitting the portion is a lie.

"Then don't."

She looked at him. He looked back with nothing on his face at all.

"…You're not helping."

"I know."

There was a Tuesday in October when he nearly stopped.

She had fallen asleep sitting up, still holding the last of it. Her breathing had that new sound in it — the one that arrives with the third notch on a belt and never leaves. He sat and listened to it for a while. He thought about the word he would have to use if he ever said any of this out loud.

Then he took the glass out of her hand, and set it down, and ordered her another one for when she woke up.

He has never told anyone about that Tuesday. It is the only part of this he is not proud of, and he would do it again, and he knows he would.

"Was I out long?"

"Ten minutes, tubby."

"Don't call me that in here."

She drank it anyway.