A Night in a Year: 27. Hot Chips

“I’ve got it,” he says, pulling out his wallet. There is no evidence of the condoms – she assumes he has more than one, maybe not – concealed within, as he extracts a tenner and hands it to the man in the cart.

They wait, her wrapping her shawl closer, holding it together in the centre of her chest. He puts his arm around her. She leans to him, sees he has the streak of gentleman in him, dirty mouth, bold moves aside.

Their number is called. The yellow Styrofoam is warm with the weight of the chips. She cradles the box, and they shuffle away from the caravan, and are pleased to find a bench under the Guildhall unoccupied. They open the boxes, simultaneously. Neither of them asked for forks, but his is covered in brown sauce, hers only scattered with ketchup.

Before he starts, he looks at her. “What’s your name?”

She laughs, and he chuckles too. The timing of the question seems extraordinary. She tells him, and he nods, repeating it once, before fishing up a fingerful of chips and brown sauce.

She takes a bite of a chip, and finishes before asking, “Yours?”

“Dave.”

It feels almost mundane, knowing it now, after they’ve fucked so hard. Names seemed meaningless then. Yet they are not. Dave from David. She nods, trying not to look like she’s examining him to see traces of the grander name, the giant killer.

She eats. The chips are warm on her tongue, soft and squishy, not too oily. The ketchup gives it a boost of sweetness, the salt a tasty tang, and she finds herself engrossed in just enjoying them as they vanish from the yellow box.

He sniggers next to her. “You were hungry.”

“Oh, this is dessert,” she says, and he looks away. He’s actually blushing.

-
Next: 28. Departure

Image found on flickr, by stuart_spivack, used under the Creative Commons License.

Mirrored from jacquelinebrocker.esquinx.net.