Fish and Chip Friday

Working the late shift at the family chippy was murder—hot oil, impatient customers, the persistent smell of vinegar that would never wash out of anything. But Fridays had one thing going for them.

Erin.

She came in every Friday at eleven, just before close. Large chips, extra crispy, diet Coke because "it balances out." Curves that her nurse's scrubs couldn't hide, tired eyes that still sparkled when she smiled.

"Long shift?" I asked, already scooping her chips.

"Twelve hours. A&E." She leaned on the counter. "A man came in with a Hoover attachment stuck somewhere a Hoover attachment should never be."

"Christ."

"That's what he said." She laughed—exhausted but genuine. "Please tell me you haven't closed the gravy."

"For you? Never."

I drowned her chips in gravy, the way she liked. She paid with exact change, our fingers brushing on the exchange.

"You always work Fridays, Tyler?"

"Every one. Family business."

"Ever get a break?"

"What's a break?"

She smiled—something different this time. "If you did get one... hypothetically... would you want company?"

My heart did something complicated. "Hypothetically?"

"We close in ten. You close in five. The park's in between." She pocketed her chips. "Hypothetically."

The park at half eleven was empty—just benches, broken swings, and a streetlight that flickered like a dying heartbeat. Erin was on a bench, chips half-eaten, waiting.

"Thought you'd chickened out," she said.

"Couldn't. You've got my gravy."

"Come get it then."

I sat beside her. She offered a chip, and I took it—salty, vinegar-sharp, perfect.

"Why me?" I asked. "Friday nights, you could go anywhere."

"I come to see you. Obviously." She didn't look embarrassed. "Twelve-hour shifts, no time for dating. But Friday chips? That I make time for."

"I'm honored to be bundled with chips."

"You should be. These chips are excellent."

We sat in comfortable silence, sharing her food. When the last chip was gone, she folded up the paper, tucked it in her bag.

"Walk me home?"

"Where's home?"

"Five minutes that way." She stood up. "If you want."

"I want."

Her flat was small, practical, nurse-tidy. She barely got the door closed before she was on me.

"I've wanted to do this for months," she admitted between kisses. "Every Friday, watching you work the fryer. Those arms."

"The fryer's heavy."

"I noticed." She was pulling off my shirt. "God, I noticed."

Her scrubs came off easy—designed for quick changes. Underneath, practical underwear that was somehow still sexy on her. She was everything I'd imagined during slow shifts—soft, curved, real.

"Bedroom?"

"Too far." She pushed me toward the sofa. "Here."

She straddled me, still in her bra and knickers, grinding down. I reached around, unhooked her bra, watched her tits spill free.

"Like what you see?"

"Been thinking about this every Friday."

"Same." She reached down, freed me from my jeans. "Christ. The chippy's been hiding treasure."

She stroked me while I played with her tits, both of us making up for months of sideways glances and charged exchanges.

"Need you inside," she said eventually. "Got a condom?"

"Wallet."

"Quick then."

Thirty seconds later she was sinking down onto me, her head falling back in relief.

"Fuck yes. That's what I needed."

She rode me on her sensible sofa, all exhaustion forgotten, moaning my name like it meant something. I grabbed her hips, matched her rhythm.

"So good—don't stop—"

I didn't. She came fast—clearly she'd been building to this longer than I had—shaking and gasping.

"Your turn—inside me—"

I came hard, pulling her down, feeling her shake through aftershocks.

We stayed there, connected, catching our breath.

"Well," she said eventually, "that was better than gravy."

"High praise."

"Don't let it go to your head." She kissed me. "Same time next Friday?"

"Same chips?"

"Same everything." She climbed off reluctantly. "Now go before I keep you for seconds."

Friday nights became my favorite. Same chips, same smile, same walk to her flat.

Best regular customer I ever had.