The Chippy Queue

Mags shuffled on the wet lino. Rain hammered the glass. The lad scowled behind the counter.

—Cod and chips twice, love. And a saveloy.

—We're out. Fat bastard from the estate got the last six.

She laughed, short and sharp. 

—Typical. Our Dean'll moan.

The peroxide woman next to her, leaned in. 

—You still with that fuckin’ useless git?

—On and off. Mostly off when the giro's gone.

The lad slapped the wrapped fish down. Mags paid in warm coins from her pocket.

—Ta.

Outside, Dean waited under the awning, collar up. They walked home in the rain, saying nowt.