Chippie Run
"He sees her every Friday night after the pub. She's always there, chips and curry sauce. Tonight she asks for a lift home. Her flat is empty."
Every Friday it's the same.
Last orders at The Crown. Stumble out with the lads. End up at Tony's Chippy on the high street, soaking up the beer with chips and curry sauce.
And every Friday, she's there.
I don't know her name.
She's maybe twenty-five, slim in that angular way—sharp cheekbones, visible collarbones, legs that go on forever. High ponytail pulled so tight it's probably giving her a headache. Massive gold hoops. Nike tracksuit, the grey one, that somehow looks good on her.
She's always leaning on the counter, chatting to Tony, waiting for her order. Chips and curry sauce, same as me. Sometimes a battered sausage if she's feeling fancy.
She's noticed me noticing her. I've noticed her noticing back.
Neither of us has done anything about it.
Until tonight.
"You're here every Friday," she says.
I'm three pints deep and feeling brave. "So are you."
"Live round the corner, innit." She picks up her chips, drowns them in curry sauce. "What's your excuse?"
"Pub's just up the road."
"The Crown?" She wrinkles her nose. "That shithole? Thought you'd have better taste."
"Clearly not. I eat here."
She laughs—surprised, genuine. "Alright, that was good. I'm Jade."
"Ryan."
"Ryan." She tries it out, like she's tasting it. "You got a car, Ryan?"
"Yeah."
"Give us a lift then. It's fucking freezing and my mate ditched me for some bloke."
My car is nothing special—old Vauxhall, seen better days—but she doesn't seem to care. She slides into the passenger seat, puts her feet up on the dash, and eats her chips like she owns the place.
"Turn left here. Then right at the roundabout."
I follow her directions. We end up at a tower block—council flats, nothing fancy—and she doesn't move to get out.
"Want to come up?"
"I don't even know you."
"You know my name. You know I like chips and curry sauce. What else do you need?" She looks at me, all sharp angles and attitude. "Unless you're not interested."
I am. Obviously I am.
"Lead the way."
Her flat is small—studio, basically—but clean. She kicks off her trainers, throws her keys on the counter, and pulls a bottle of vodka from the freezer.
"Drink?"
"Sure."
She pours two glasses—no mixer, just straight—and hands me one.
"So here's the thing." She doesn't sit down. Just stands there, hip cocked, drink in hand. "I've been watching you for months. Every Friday, there you are with your mates, pretending not to stare at me."
"I wasn't—"
"You were. And I've been doing the same thing." She takes a long sip. "I don't do slow, yeah? I don't do dates and dinners and all that bollocks. I see something I want, I take it."
"And you want—"
"You. Tonight." She sets down her drink. "Unless you've got a problem with that."
She kisses like she's starting a fight.
All teeth and tongue and aggression, her slim body pressing against mine. She's bony in places—hipbones sharp, ribs visible when she pulls off her top—but there's something about her that's all woman.
Small tits, barely a handful, with pierced nipples that glint in the low light.
"Like what you see?"
"Yeah."
"Then do something about it."
I put her on her little kitchen counter.
She wraps her legs around me while I pull off her tracksuit bottoms—no knickers underneath, just her, already wet.
"No foreplay," she says. "I don't need it. Just fuck me."
I don't argue. I free myself, line up, and push in.
"Fuck," she hisses. "Yeah. That's it."
She's tight—slim girls usually are—and she fucks like she talks: direct, aggressive, no bullshit. Her nails dig into my shoulders. Her teeth find my neck. Her moans are more like demands.
"Harder. Come on, is that all you've got?"
I give her harder.
I lift her off the counter—she weighs nothing—and fuck her standing up, her legs wrapped around my waist, her back against the wall. She's light enough to bounce, and I bounce her, watching her face twist with pleasure.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck—don't stop—"
She comes with a scream that probably wakes the neighbors. I follow her over the edge, finishing inside her because she never told me not to.
We slide down the wall together, breathless, sweaty, chips forgotten on the counter.
"Alright," she says eventually. "That was decent."
"Decent?"
"Better than decent." She grins, sharp and satisfied. "You can stay the night. But you're getting the chips first. They're going cold."
I stay the night.
And the next Friday. And the one after that.
We never go on proper dates. Never meet each other's mates. It's always the same: chips and curry sauce, vodka in her flat, fucking until neither of us can move.
"What are we?" I ask one night, months later.
"We're the chippie run," she says. "That's all we need to be."
Some nights she wants it rough—against the wall, on the floor, bent over her tiny kitchen table. Some nights she wants it slow—in her bed, face to face, almost like we're something real.
But every Friday, it starts the same way.
Tony's Chippy. Chips and curry sauce.
Her, leaning on the counter.
Me, pretending not to stare.
"Coming up, Ryan?"
"Always, Jade."
Always.