Mikey Way=Frozen Love Milkshake=Frank Iero

"What'd you want, kid?" the middle-aged guy in the white apron asks me.
"Milkshake. Chocolate, please."
"Give me a sec," he says, holding up a finger that looks more like a sausage than an appendage. I nod and stick my hand in my pocket, digging in and pulling out three crumpled dollar bills. I try to smooth them out on the counter, but it's a poor attempt at ironing the bills. The guy comes back to the cash register, with a clean, clear mug filled with chocolate milkshake inside.
"That's two fifty," he grumbles. He sets the drink down and I hand him the money. He grunts and hands me back two quarters, which I drop into the little tip jar. Change has never been my thing, feels weird jingling in my pant's pockets.
I take the mug and walk over to a booth. The seat squeaks when I at down, the rubber not liking being squished. I set my mug down on the table, the color of a crayola-blue crayon. I put my elbows on the table and lean my head in my open palms.
Slowly, I look up at the milkshake, feeling my head inflate with memories. Frank and I used to come here. We always sat in this booth, for it was in the corner and he liked being able to look out at the room and all of the people that occupied the booths and counter. We always got the same order. One chocolate milkshake. Two straws, of course.
We would stay for hours, looking over at each other while sips were taken from the chocolate delight. I remember blushing whenever I'd look up to see him looking at me taking a sip. He'd always smile that slanted smile and rub my leg with his foot in a comforting manner.
He doesn't do that anymore. We don't do anything together anymore. He was supposed to meet me here after work got off, but that was about half an hour before I finally ordered. He never showed up. Something that I shouldn't be surprised about, and I'm not . . . But that doesn't stop the hurt that comes from his action.
We used to always meet here every Friday when he got off. We'd spend all afternoon here and just be happy with each other's presence. I guess that he doesn't like it anymore, for it's been a month since he last sat in this booth.
He doesn't call me that much any more, and we barely ever hang out. I think that the last time I talked to him was last Tuesday. It was only for five minutes, for he called right when people were about to come over. I think that he did that on purpose, for he didn't want to talk to me that long.
I remember when we first started to see each other. He was always so happy, his eyes holding that glint of excitement in them. We would go over to each other's house daily. Just to sit on the couch and talk silently. To enjoy each other's presence. He never stopped smiling when we hung out. He even gave me his class ring to wear, an honor that I was more than happy to accept. Last time I went over to his house, I left it on the couch by accident. It must have slipped off. When he called later that week I told him and asked if he could bring it next time we hung out. He said that he would, but I never got that ring back.
My fingers feel so naked without that piece of silver wrapped around it. My waist empty for his hands aren't curled around it. My hand empty, because his fingers aren't intertwined with my own. My lips yearn for his own, a treat that that hasn't been tasted in almost month.
I stir the straw of the milkshake. It's become soupy now, melted a bit and there is condensation dripped off the glass. I draw a heart in the condensation, but it quickly fades when droplets of water go right through it. I can't help but think that our relationship started with a milkshake, and was now ending with a milkshake. The frozen treat a symbol of our relationship. Melting, loosing substance, disappearing with every Friday that goes by with me sitting here alone.
I think that next time I come here I'll order one Frozen Love Milkshake.