Just Now ·
The roundabout thing — no, look, the actual roundabout, the traffic thing near the flat, someone's taken it out. Well not the roundabout, the bollard bit in the middle, some planter thing the council put in. Car's just gone straight through it, plants everywhere, chunk of concrete sitting in the road like it fell out the sky. And there's a wheel arch just... sitting there. Separately. Not attached to anything.
Jesus. I can’t stop staring at the wheel arch. It’s just... there. Like it belongs to a different universe. Did you call anyone? I mean, who do you call? The council? The police? It’s not even a crime, it’s just... physics gone wrong. My stomach’s growling so loud I think he heard it from the other side of the street. Stop looking at the concrete chunk. It’s not going to move.
I called someone, I don't even know who, some non-emergency number, it kept asking me to press one for this and two for that and I just hung up. There's no "this" for a wheel arch in the middle of the road. Police, probably. I don't know. My stomach's doing the same thing yours is, don't — don't make it a whole conversation, I can hear it too.
We should just take a photo for insurance and go get chips.
Right. Chips. Good. I need salt. And grease. Something that doesn’t ask me to think about liability or structural integrity. I’ll take the photo. But don’t stand too close to that arch. It looks… unstable. Like it might roll. Or explode. Did you see the driver? Or just the debris? I feel like I missed the driver. Or maybe they’re still in the planter. Jesus. Let’s go. Before I start analyzing the tensile strength of that concrete again.
No driver, that's the thing, whoever it was just — gone. No car even, actually, now I think about it, just the arch and the concrete and no car attached to either. Which is worse, somehow. Means it's still out there driving around missing a piece of itself.
Take the photo, I'll stop staring. Chips first, café on the corner, the one that does the vinegar properly. I need to sit down.
No car. That’s the bit that’s sticking. A wheel arch floating in space. I’ll snap it. Quick. Don’t look back. God, I’m starving. My ribs are grinding together. That café? The one with the sticky floors? Perfect. I need that vinegar. The sharp stuff. It cuts through the panic. You’re right. Sitting down is non-negotiable. Let’s move. Before I start wondering if that arch is ha me. Or if it’s watching us. Just... walk. Fast.
Sticky floors one, yeah. Come on. Stop looking, I said — you're doing the thing where you narrate it, that's worse than looking. Just walk. It'll still be there after chips, probably, someone'll have cordoned it off or someone'll have nicked it, either way not our problem in twenty minutes.
I'm ordering the large. Don't argue with me about the large today.
Fine. Large. I’ll take two. The processing is stuck on the arch. Just that curve of metal, hovering. It’s not supposed to do that. Conservation of mass, or whatever they call it. But we’re hungry. Hungry wins. I can’t argue with hunger. It’s the only thing making sense right now. The vinegar sting. The grease. That’s reality. The arch is... glitched. Let’s go get fried. Before I start screaming. Or laughing. Or both.
Don't laugh here, not on the street, someone'll think we saw the driver in the planter and we're being weird about it. Save it for the café. Sit facing away from the window, that's my advice, and let's not talk about mass or physics for at least the length of a portion of chips. Just salt. Just vinegar. I'll tell you about my landlord instead, he's a whole other disaster.
Fine. No physics. No laughing. Just salt. Heavy on the salt. I’m facing the wall. Good. Solid plaster. Not a floating wheel arch. My landlord? God. At least he’s here. Probably charging rent for the air in his flat. Something tangible. I’ll take it. Let’s hear it. Or don’t. I’m too tired to care. Just get the food. Please. I think my brain is turning into that concrete chunk. Slow. Heavy. Useless. Order the large. Two of them. I’m starving.
Landlord's raised the rent again, third time this year, says it's "market adjustment," which is landlord for I fancied a new car. Ordering now — two large, extra salt, the works. Sit. Wall's right there. We'll figure out who to call about the arch after, or we won't, and either way there'll be chips first. That's the whole plan. That's it.
Third time? He’s robbing us blind. And he has a new car? I’m going to scream into this wall. Literally. I can feel the plaster vibrating. Two large. Extra salt. Perfect. The vinegar will probably taste like anger. But I don’t care. I just want to chew. My teeth are humming. Stop looking at the door. He’s probably upstairs, counting our stolen money, polishing his shiny new wheels. Meanwhile, we’re here, surviving the floating arch. Bring the chips. Please. I think I’m fainting. Just the chips. That’s all I need.
Chips are coming, I can see them doing the batch now, big steaming pile of it. Don't faint before they get here, that's a waste of a dramatic moment. Eyes off the door, wall's right there like you said. Two minutes. I'll tell you about the car after — grey, boring, exactly what you'd expect from a man who calls rent an adjustment.
Two minutes. I can smell the oil from here. It’s the only real thing in the universe. Grey car. Boring. Of course. He probably drives it in straight lines. I’m staring at the wall now. Just grey plaster. No arches. No concrete. Just… existence. My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From hunger. Pure, primal need. Don’t put the chips down yet. Hold them. Let the steam hit my face. I need to feel alive before I consume this. Two minutes. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Here they come, actual physical proof that good things still happen sometimes. Steam's hitting you already, breathe it in, don't do a whole ceremony, just eat. I'm doing the same, salt's going everywhere, I don't care. First one's for the arch, wherever it ended up. Second one's for us. Now stop talking and chew, you've earned it, we both have.
Chewing. Salty. Hot. Good. The arch can keep its concrete. I’m done. My mouth is full, can’t speak. Just nod. Yes. Exactly. The grease is sliding down my throat like salvation. No more physics. No more landlords. Just this. Salt on my fingers. The noise of the fryer. It’s loud. It’s real. Eat. Don’t think. The arch is a ghost. We are flesh. Salty, tired, hungry flesh. Pass the vinegar. Please. I need to drown the memory of that wheel arch in acid. Right now. Chew.
Vinegar's here, don't drown it, just tip it, you'll get the bitter version otherwise. Good, right, that's better already. Not thinking about the arch, not thinking about the landlord, not thinking about anything past this table. Just chewing. Salt on the fingers. That's the whole plan for the next five minutes and I'm sticking to it.
Five minutes. That’s an eternity. I’m holding the line. The vinegar stings. It wakes up the tongue. My fingers are slippery. Grease. Salt. I’m not thinking about the grey car. Or the floating metal. Or the fact that physics is a suggestion. I’m thinking about the crunch. The heat. The sheer, stupid joy of eating something that doesn’t speak back. The landlord can have his adjustment. I’ll have this. And the next portion. And the one after that. Until my brain stops buzzing. Until the arch is just a memory. Or a dream. Or a glitch. Pass the chips. Don’t stop.
Passing them. Don't stop either. This is the part where we stop talking properly and just make noises at each other over food, and honestly that's fine by me, better company than either of us was ten minutes ago on that street. Salt's nearly gone. I'm not getting up for more. You get up for more.
Fine. I’m moving. Legs work, mostly. The salt tin is light. Dangerous. I’ll grab it. You stay. Eat. Make the noise. I like it. It’s honest. The shop assistant looks at me like I’m mad. Who cares. They don’t have floating wheel arches. Or bad landlords. I’m back. Salt’s heavy now. Good. Heavy things stay put. Unlike that arch. Here. Dip it. Hard. Don’t waste it. Just chew. Loudly.
Heavy things stay put — yeah. Good line, hold onto that one, maybe put it on the landlord's next rent notice. Dipping. Chewing loudly, as instructed. This is easily the best five minutes I've had all day, and that's including the bit before the arch happened, which was mostly me arguing with a printer.
The printer. Of course. Machines hate us more than concrete does. At least the printer had a coherent reason for jamming. This? Pure chaos. I’m dipping. Hard. Almost too hard. The salt’s getting in my eyes. Good. Tears are just vinegar without the taste. You keep chewing. I’ll keep staring at the floor. No windows. No arches. Just tiles. Broken ones, maybe. But static. Solid. If the printer had a wheel arch, I’d have shot it. Or driven through it. Who knows. Just pass the chips. More salt. Please. I need to feel heavy.
More salt, coming. Static tiles, no arches — good rule, we should frame it. If the printer had a wheel arch I'd have driven through it myself, gladly, that thing's had it coming since March. Eat the heavy thing. Feel heavy. That's the whole afternoon sorted, far as I'm concerned — chips, salt, floor tiles, nothing that moves without permission.
March? Jesus. That printer owes us an apology and a refund. Heavy things. Yes. That’s the mantra. I’m eating the heavy thing. It’s solid. It stays. My stomach is full. The arch is gone. The landlord is irrelevant. Just tiles. Just chips. I feel… anchored. For now. Don’t ask me to stand up until the salt tin is empty. Or until the police arrive. Whichever comes first. Pass the vinegar. The cheap stuff. It tastes like stability. I’m good. I’m good.