It was just a milkshake.
I've made them before, more
Than I could ever count except
This time you had asked for one.
And suddenly it was different.
I stared at the archaic machine as if
My gaze would turn it new,
And I positioned the cheap paper
Cup filled with strawberry, your favorite,
Under the mixer.
All I had to do was press, mix, and serve.
Except it was different.
Maybe because I could feel your
Stare on my back, like I was your
Machine or maybe because sometimes
I make mistakes and this couldn't 
Possibly be a mistake.
Because it was yours.
Because it was different.
Carefully I lifted the drink up to the stirrer
And I treated it like it was the same.
I watched the strawberry chunks get smaller
And blend together just the way
I knew you liked it until, in an instant,
A piece caught on the blades and resisted.
Cold, gooey strawberry spread across 
My hands like blood.
I froze as the blades laughed in a cruel
Metallic tone at just how different this all was. 
I looked back at your frown, at how your
Eyes were dismaying over my stained white uniform.
Over your ruined milkshake.
So I passed the cup over to the next girl,
And she made it right.