I overheard the exchange from my perch a few seats over and wouldn't stop bringing it up to my date. 'Did you hear that guy order milk? Who orders milk? Is he really going to drink milk and red wine at the same time? Do you think his stomach can handle that much lactose?' My date, a nonjudgmental midwesterner, was hardly as disturbed by the whole thing as I was.
Milk Man went to town: taking big swigs between chomps of steak with such gusto that my blood ran cold. That hairy, masculine hand. The glass of frothy milk. The pure delight. The cow two ways. I felt disturbed to the very core of my soul; the same feeling I get on a 75-degree day in November.
'Oh, I know it's weird, right?' he responded, self-aware but not ashamed. Then he leaned over and drawled, 'I can't explain it. I just love a big glass of cold milk with a rare steak. Mmmmm-mm!'
There's just something about milk in the hands of an adult that is truly unnerving. Milk symbolizes innocence and purity, and the adult who continues to indulge in it - nay, cling to it...
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