I come here on occasion after the pizzeria.
I approach the table to pick up my order. Within seconds, my fingertips turn cold as the contents of the cup.
I examine the beverage: cream with a white top and a red maraschino.
In four minutes, it will be over.

I pull out the black spoon and eat the whipped cream. Smooth, soft and swallowed.
The cherry remains. The sweet fruit is plucked, leaving a crimson crater in a sheet of white.
Placing the cherry in my mouth, the stem rips off and I swallow it whole.
In three minutes, it will be over.

I press lips against the scarlet straw and inhale.
The drink enters my mouth: vanilla.
In two minutes, it will be over.

I regret ordering a small, but they are three dollars.
In a minute, it will be over.

I swallow the last bit. With the flavors only in my memories, I search for a trash can.