She stared intently at the fountain glass as it slowly filled.  Thick, viscous malt cascaded gradually, the liquid rising higher and higher.

“Stop!” Martha shouted. The shake was perfect. “Thank you,” she smiled as looked around the cafe. It was late, and the room was almost empty, save a few midnight diners. She walked back to her booth, where Diggory was sitting.

“So,” she said as she sat down. “Where were we?”

“We were about to talk about the money issues.”

“Ah. Right.” Martha grimaced, sipping on her shake. “You know what? I’ll be right back, I need to use the bathroom. Don’t take any of my drink!”

Diggory scowled as she walked away.

As Martha passed the kitchen, she heard a shout. She continued walking, but the chef was actually quite upset, having just spilled the most important component of a very fine fillet steak all over the kitchen floor. “Dammit. Esther, can you help me out in here?” he yelled panickedly to the counter.

“Hang on in there!” Esther was irritated. That wasn’t unusual for her; as a matter of fact, it’s not even worth mentioning. She was busy sudsing down the marble table on which the cafe served all its entrées, and didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

“Ah, f***,” the chef exclaimed from the kitchen. “I can’t find any more custard.”

Pause.

“Dammit Esther, we’re out of custard!” he repeated. “I need custard for the steak!”

“Shut up,” Esther groaned sternly, before looking up. “Oh, excuse me—”

“Sorry, we’re not quite ready,” Martha mistakenly replied to Esther as she returned to her seat. “Alright!” She took a long draw from the shake. Several minutes had gone by, and it was warmer now—not yet warm, of course, but it lacked its original chill. “Where were we?”

Diggory frowned. “Let’s talk. About Dad’s money problems.”

Martha smiled, forcedly. “Right,” she paused. “Dad.”

“So, we’re in agreement.”

“Yes.” Martha said emphatically. She took another draw from the shake. “Or, no. No.”

Diggory shook his head with disappointment, looking across the cafe at the bar. Two women sat next to each other in tall billiard stools, intertwined in some sort of intense emotional embrace. They both bore ink—snakes on the arms, a vine wandering from one’s back to another’s; the tattoos formed a story as they peered through each other’s eyes. The cafe paled, a vibrant array of colors bringing the snakes to life, while drawing vitality from the rest of the room, save Esther—she was remarkably pale to begin with, and could not conceivably be monotonized further.

The snakes swirled around the women's’ bodies, thrashing around before escaping to the floor and climbing up the table leg to stare Diggory in the face.

“Diggory.” they hissed.

“Diggory!”

Diggory made an about-face. “Martha. Sorry,” he mumbled.

She cocked her head. “Are you OK?”

“He’s not in good condition, Martha. I don’t want what happened to him to happen to my kids. I mean, you understand that, right?”

“Of course. But they both tested negative,” she assured, adding, “You really shouldn’t be concerned.”

Diggory frowned. “It’s such a dangerous, terrible existence, Martha. And the pills don’t help.”

“That really sucks, but this isn’t about you. This is about Dad right now.”

He shrugged, looking back across the room. A quick dart of black obscured his vision, causing Diggory to flinch. It was an ink sparrow that he hadn’t noticed before, flying its way slowly across the room. It shifted its head back and forth, opened its beak, and let out a load roar. Diggory yelped.

“Excuse me?” It was Esther, having come with the food. “I have a breakfast platter,” she passed a hefty plate piled high with waffles and scones over her shoulder, “and an exquisite fillet steak for the gentleman.” She placed the steak on the table. It was boring, unglazed; dull.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Esther said as she left.

Martha waited until she walked away. “Are you seeing things again.”

He shook his head in affirmation. “Look, while I have you, I brought the new forms with me,” he said, pulling a thin manilla folder out of a messenger bag and sliding it across the table with a pen. “You and he just need to sign and the whole confrontation is over.”

Martha paused.

“Alright,” she shrugged.

Diggory raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Alright.” she repeated.

“Thank you.”

He tapped his fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern. “Well, it’s late, I should probably drop those off. Just sign at the bottom—”

“Please. Finish your food, I can drive to the office before it closes.”

“Thanks.”

Martha slid out of the booth, counting out thirty dollars as she stood. “This should be enough. They drive a hard bargain with those shakes, yeah?”

“I guess they do.”

They stood in silence. Onions sizzled scentlessly in the kitchen.

“Take care,” emoted Martha.

Diggory raised his hand in farewell as she walked past a man in the navy blue suit and out the door. Martha grinned into the frigid air, crumpled up the folder, and walked down the street, tossing the decrepit forms in an ashtray as she went.