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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


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Author Topic: Milk shake Object Writing July 17  (Read 690 times)
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« on: July 16, 2008, 10:29:39 PM »

A crystal blue summer day, the town is melting under punishing heat and I am serving in the shop. I have to gather special reserves every time the door starts to creek open, it's really hard having to 'serve' customers. To engage with them when you're 14 and shy. The next customer to come in is completely unexpected, Sue Rosan, an object of my schoolboy desire, in my shop and she's asking me for a milk shake. I trip over my words like they are hurdles in a race as I ask what sort she wants , I then race to assemble components: A muted metal container, the litre of milk that sweats on my hand after removal from the aspiring refrigerator and the ice cream that's kept in a separate freezer with square lift up lids . They clunk together as the ice cream tool plunges into the chilled depths. Hairs on my arms sit up and the sound of the regulator seems to buzz louder than usual.

Inside my nerves are  running like ants on hot concrete, tongue still mostly  a knot of bread dough- useless. At least I know she wants a blue heaven shake. I seal the ice cream compartment and two white domes languish at the bottom of the shaker. To the right is a row of ancient looking bottles and I choose the stark blue one- very fake in colour and smell, it is syrup on steroids, now the milk surges into the container crashing against the sides making its way two thirds up. If I can't speak to her at least I can get this right! ~Now the scary part, I place it on the mixing machine and it locks into place. A jarring whir fills the shop, a grinding pummeling whisk takes place. Scary because there's at least thirty seconds where I might have to find something to say or I might feel entirely embarrassed. Welts of shame begin to show on my cheeks because I have got nothing to say, so as she leaves, after our 'that'll be 25 cents please' encounter she's gone and any chance I had to actually talk to her disappears like a plastic bag on the hot wind that is brushing the streets outside....

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