Sketch: milkshakes

The Dark Age of Five Dollar Milkshakes by Jonathan Yaniv

“I wish I drank more milkshakes while I was alive.”
He pauses, and contemplates how to explain this voluptuous, juicy concept.

“Thick, creamy, full...” he groans, “just enough ice cream, so that when suck on the straw, it works your jaws. But they gotta have just enough milk so that it's soft enough to give you the rich rewards after you...” he sighs a deep sigh. He sighs at our nativity.

“How you miss the things in your life, when its gone. It was the perfect experience. You know what I mean?”

Yeah

Nevertheless. He cannot rest. His mind has never stopped contemplating the milkshake. He relentlessly pursues, he tries to imagine it, he tries with every bit of strength that he can muster, but the the boulder rolls back down the hill. He will never accept that he can't roll it over the hill, for if he does, than he won't exist anymore.

Lets try something. We'll put someone else with him, and see what will happen to him...

“hello?” calls the newcomer, startling our hero.
“hey... wow. I didn't know that more people can come in here.” he replies.
“oh...” the newcomer realizes that he is being referred to, “Well I guess we can.”
“yeah”

Awkward silence.

“how long have you been...” the newcomer begins
“I dunno” our hero cuts off, agitated by the truth of the question.

Even more awkward silence.


“hey, you want some coffee?” our hero, George asks Dan. He leans over on his deep red couch-chair, puts his large earthy blue mug on the dark maroon stained maple coffee table in front of him and deftly lifts the coffee pot in his deep, aged to perfection hands, expertly pouring the archaic blackness for Dan while taking in the sensual orgasm of gently gurgling splashes of pouring, fresh brewed, steamy, hot coffee.

“thanks” Dan replied and wrapped his hands, around his own earthy brown mug, which our hero so generously filled for him.

“So tell me” George says after a perfectly lengthened pause, “have you ever had a five dollar milkshake?”

Dan stifles a laugh, “are you kidding? Those things are way before my time.”
He files in his pocket. “You wanna cigarette? I'm sure these things won't do us no harm anymore.”
They both chuckle humorously.
“Coffee and cigarettes? What are you trying to stick a pacifier in my mouth?” George incredulously proclaims.
Dan looks at him sheepishly.
“Cummon, it's not like we're in a Jim Jarmusch movie. We can actually communicate over these things.”
George looks at the cigarette longingly, craving for a hit of nicotine. His organs are moving towards it faster than his mind, and dogie piling on his rib cages.
“Alright”
They sit back, and light the things, Dan with a lighter, and George with a box of matches. They inhale, and exhale a thick haze of smoke, filling up the room faster than a fog machine. Dan puffs at his pacifier. George begins his rhetoric...
“I asked you about the milkshake, because it's so rare for anyone in my time to have had one either. I thought maybe... they were revived.” George stares at his new companion longly, “a good milkshake is an amazing thing. Its a pity you never had one. Their texture is... something... something beyond our comprehension. It reaches the pinnacle of our very...” George stops, and stares pretentiously into his coffee, showing off his artistic suffering.

He lights another cigarette, and they both sit there, staring off, into the darkness. And puffing.