Fresh Milk

By Ghosty Chan

In the midst of a bustling, busy, market

stood a bubble tea shop, 

the neon sign above it half lit, half fused. 

How long has it been since I patronised this store, I wonder.

How long has it been since I discovered the other, 

cheaper, trendier one 

that was so much more accessible on my way home from school?

A familiar storefront.

A menu banner that had pretty obviously withstood the test of time. 

Maybe I should get something different this time. 

I opened my mouth to order. 

“Hi, could I get a brown sugar-” Fresh milk. “-milk tea with no ice, please?”

I wanted fresh milk. I had always gotten fresh milk.

My tongue yearned for it; 

the words lingered on the tips of my taste buds, 

But just like the memory of it, my words died in my throat. 

My wallet, however, breathed a quiet thank you.

Since when have I been this conscious about money? 

Who cares, who cared, about having to pay extra just for a preference? 

Certainly not the me from, like what, 5 years ago. 

All of a sudden, my uniform changed, and so did my preferences. 

Games, not books.

Photobooths, not libraries.

Short pants, not frilly skirts.

Fruit tea, not milk tea. 

Milk tea, not fresh milk.

Trends, not hobbies.

It tasted almost the same. 

Almost.

Though of course it wasn’t. 

This is milk tea, not fresh milk. 

They’re not the same.

By Ghosty Chan