There’s these two women sitting across the restaurant. From the bar, I figure that they’re maybe 25. But today they’re kids; eight-year-olds who just saved up enough allowance to come to a fancy place for something really special.

The longhaired one, I can’t take my eyes off her. She throws back those curls with every laugh and wrinkles her nose each time the contents of her glass creep up her straw, surprising her mouth.

The other one, she has a giggle that begins in her eyes just seconds before it escapes her lips. Her long legs, one crossed over the other, bounce and swing along to music that no one else can hear.

Everyone in here is watching them, I’m certain. But these girls are oblivious to everything except their specialty milkshakes. As they lean toward each other to share their secrets, I feel myself move closer – but I don’t get any younger.

Maybe I could join them – if I just had the right ratio of vanilla ice cream to milk, some whipped cream, and a straw. But I end up with my usual, a red label on the rocks, tip up the glass, and taste nothing.