Running On Eggshells
by Andrew Velzian
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: When nothing can be made right again.
_____________________________________________________________________
Fiona snatches her hand back from the sting of heat left on the counter from the previous order. Reaching again with tentative deliberation, she gathers the off-white parcels then stands back with tired shoulders and eyes pleading for the rest of the order.
The hooped earrings of Counter Girl tap in tandem as she marches off and assembles the next order.
Fiona stands jostled by customers coming and going, like a car going the wrong way up a one-way street. Frantic eyes attempt to make contact with Counter Girl.
The florescent glare hurts her eyes and filters through to add percussion to her already banging head. If only she had had the time to remember her glasses, even her snapped reading glasses would have sufficed. The third time their eyes meet Counter Girl comes over with an aggravated tilt of the head.
“Sorry… I’m still waiting on a single king rib?”
“You’ve got it love.” She nods at the parcel.
“Oh.” Fiona bites her lips and looks up. “In with the chips?”
“Ye-ess…”
Knowing Greig’s reaction if he saw the king rib touching the chips makes her draw blood from her lip. “It’s just–”
“Look, love, is there anything else? Little bit busy, y’might have noticed.”
“Well, it’s just that I’d asked for them separate, you see. A portion of chips. A portion of mushy peas. A single king rib. I know it’s a pain but they’re not all for me, you see…”
Counter Girl leans forward sharply, supporting herself with an oil scarred arm.
“Right. Individually wrapped, yeah?” Two clicks of the fingers, “Pass them over.” She reaches out for the wrapped supper. Gail jumps back to avoid the nicotine stained hands with intricate designs painted on the tips.
“No! No, it’s fine.” Fiona backs away, half turning towards the door as if sensing an attack from another angle. “I’ll… I’ll just tell him it was on my half of the chips. That’s what I’ll do.”
In the alley beside the chip shop as Fiona’s breath subsides, she opens her eyes and straightens out her jacket. The heat inside had been welcoming before becoming suffocating and menacing. It had done nothing to chase off the chill that her bones had been incubating all day. Damp heat had reignited her cough.
The warmth of the food felt nice but in this weather it would cool down soon enough. The grease already making its way through the wrapper.
As she passes swearing teenagers draped over a bench outside the off-licence, she makes a show of tightening her collar and looking at the darkening sky with distaste.
The police car drifting past offers no sense of protection but rather a feeling of foreboding, of being watched.
Fiona places urgency into each step, knowing that Greig will be home and hungry now.
The pendulum of his moods gathers pace with the increase of hunger. The occasional complaint and pitying glare from neighbours lay testament that this was one thing she couldn’t be accused of imagining.
It hadn’t always been this way; except for those odd occasions that human nature allowed for.
When she had first set eyes on him it was love at first sight. She was swept away by the force of this feeling, so deep it had radiated from her marrow and made the air around her snap and fizzle with every breath and thought of him. Now that glow had receded. Although no words are uttered, and things carry on as usual, she can tell just by the way he looks at her.
Fiona feels inclined to walk on tiptoes through quiet suburban streets where identical semi-detached houses are made individual by the owner’s cosmetic touches; like make-up hiding the marks you don’t want the neighbours to see. She holds her breath at intervals to make sure it’s the echo of her own footfalls that are trailing behind her.
Christmas lights sway with gusts of wind and inflatable Santas and snowmen wobble on their mounts to prevent them seeking refuge beneath next door’s hedge.
She lets herself into the darkened hallway and makes her way up the stairs. Illuminated only by the green Exit sign, she steps around the mounting pile of everybody else’s mail on the bottom step. Key in hand, she walks silently, breath held, ears open to her door and finds the keyhole by guiding the key with her fingertip.
Putting her shoulder to the weighted door, Fiona slips through while pulling out her keys. Helping it return to its default position, she nudges it over the thick carpet until it clicks into place. Locking the mortice, she leaves the keys in the lock, keyring swaying as if a ghost had gently brushed past.
Biting her lip, she enters the room, anxious about what she’ll find. She had twice returned home to be met with a wall of heat from the two bar fire, radio and lights on and him fast asleep in his uniform that had needed to be washed for the next day. She had gently warned him about this before. Once.
She had had panic attacks worrying about him locked out on the hallway after venturing to the toilet. Pacing back and forth, both angry and upset.
Feeling and smelling the cold upon entering, the cheap air freshener adds to the sting in her eyes. Walking in, she sees Greig sprawled on the two-seat sofa angling his motorbike magazine to benefit from the lamp’s weak glow on the scarred telephone table behind him.
-Hi there, Pet. God, what a day!-
No response.
-And you? Have a good day?-
He turns a page and raises the magazine.
Tucking hair behind an ear, her face smiles without relaxing. She walks to the dinette table and puts her handbag and tray of chips down.
-Right, I’ll get the tea out.-
The plates scraping together brings the top half of a head above the couch. Something caught in her throat to see his dimmed pale eyes frantically search the table.
-Is it hot this time?-
-Em, yeah. Perfect eating temperature.-
Getting up, he prowls around the table, trying to decipher the lumps and bumps beneath the wrapping. Looking at the two plates and back to the wrapped tray, his eyes and eyebrows meet in discussion.
Striding forward, he takes over the unwrapping that Fiona had barely begun. He stops unwrapping the mushy peas when his suspicion is successfully met. Unravelling the next parcel he lifts the lid of the carton and takes a step back. Fiona’s eyes flick in his direction.
-S’this?- His finger thrusts at the king rib, perfectly relaxed across perspiring chips.
-And why is it on my chips?-
-Well, that is a King Rib.-
-I know what it’s called.-
-I… I thought I might have a wee bite to eat seeing as I was up so early getting your toast and I’ll be up late washing the uniform that you still have on…-
-It was too cold to get changed!-
Fiona see’s the eyes flare to life from the all too familiar smouldering she witnessed upon walking in.
-And food!-
He grabs the rib tightly in his fist not noticing how cool it had become.
-Why should you get to eat? You lied to the police and put dad in jail, now we have to live here and you want to eat?-
Instinctively Fiona reaches for her throat and steps back against the wall. She feels the healing scar along her neck, and wonders when the pain will end.
Swearwords: None.
Description: When nothing can be made right again.
_____________________________________________________________________
Fiona snatches her hand back from the sting of heat left on the counter from the previous order. Reaching again with tentative deliberation, she gathers the off-white parcels then stands back with tired shoulders and eyes pleading for the rest of the order.
The hooped earrings of Counter Girl tap in tandem as she marches off and assembles the next order.
Fiona stands jostled by customers coming and going, like a car going the wrong way up a one-way street. Frantic eyes attempt to make contact with Counter Girl.
The florescent glare hurts her eyes and filters through to add percussion to her already banging head. If only she had had the time to remember her glasses, even her snapped reading glasses would have sufficed. The third time their eyes meet Counter Girl comes over with an aggravated tilt of the head.
“Sorry… I’m still waiting on a single king rib?”
“You’ve got it love.” She nods at the parcel.
“Oh.” Fiona bites her lips and looks up. “In with the chips?”
“Ye-ess…”
Knowing Greig’s reaction if he saw the king rib touching the chips makes her draw blood from her lip. “It’s just–”
“Look, love, is there anything else? Little bit busy, y’might have noticed.”
“Well, it’s just that I’d asked for them separate, you see. A portion of chips. A portion of mushy peas. A single king rib. I know it’s a pain but they’re not all for me, you see…”
Counter Girl leans forward sharply, supporting herself with an oil scarred arm.
“Right. Individually wrapped, yeah?” Two clicks of the fingers, “Pass them over.” She reaches out for the wrapped supper. Gail jumps back to avoid the nicotine stained hands with intricate designs painted on the tips.
“No! No, it’s fine.” Fiona backs away, half turning towards the door as if sensing an attack from another angle. “I’ll… I’ll just tell him it was on my half of the chips. That’s what I’ll do.”
In the alley beside the chip shop as Fiona’s breath subsides, she opens her eyes and straightens out her jacket. The heat inside had been welcoming before becoming suffocating and menacing. It had done nothing to chase off the chill that her bones had been incubating all day. Damp heat had reignited her cough.
The warmth of the food felt nice but in this weather it would cool down soon enough. The grease already making its way through the wrapper.
As she passes swearing teenagers draped over a bench outside the off-licence, she makes a show of tightening her collar and looking at the darkening sky with distaste.
The police car drifting past offers no sense of protection but rather a feeling of foreboding, of being watched.
Fiona places urgency into each step, knowing that Greig will be home and hungry now.
The pendulum of his moods gathers pace with the increase of hunger. The occasional complaint and pitying glare from neighbours lay testament that this was one thing she couldn’t be accused of imagining.
It hadn’t always been this way; except for those odd occasions that human nature allowed for.
When she had first set eyes on him it was love at first sight. She was swept away by the force of this feeling, so deep it had radiated from her marrow and made the air around her snap and fizzle with every breath and thought of him. Now that glow had receded. Although no words are uttered, and things carry on as usual, she can tell just by the way he looks at her.
Fiona feels inclined to walk on tiptoes through quiet suburban streets where identical semi-detached houses are made individual by the owner’s cosmetic touches; like make-up hiding the marks you don’t want the neighbours to see. She holds her breath at intervals to make sure it’s the echo of her own footfalls that are trailing behind her.
Christmas lights sway with gusts of wind and inflatable Santas and snowmen wobble on their mounts to prevent them seeking refuge beneath next door’s hedge.
She lets herself into the darkened hallway and makes her way up the stairs. Illuminated only by the green Exit sign, she steps around the mounting pile of everybody else’s mail on the bottom step. Key in hand, she walks silently, breath held, ears open to her door and finds the keyhole by guiding the key with her fingertip.
Putting her shoulder to the weighted door, Fiona slips through while pulling out her keys. Helping it return to its default position, she nudges it over the thick carpet until it clicks into place. Locking the mortice, she leaves the keys in the lock, keyring swaying as if a ghost had gently brushed past.
Biting her lip, she enters the room, anxious about what she’ll find. She had twice returned home to be met with a wall of heat from the two bar fire, radio and lights on and him fast asleep in his uniform that had needed to be washed for the next day. She had gently warned him about this before. Once.
She had had panic attacks worrying about him locked out on the hallway after venturing to the toilet. Pacing back and forth, both angry and upset.
Feeling and smelling the cold upon entering, the cheap air freshener adds to the sting in her eyes. Walking in, she sees Greig sprawled on the two-seat sofa angling his motorbike magazine to benefit from the lamp’s weak glow on the scarred telephone table behind him.
-Hi there, Pet. God, what a day!-
No response.
-And you? Have a good day?-
He turns a page and raises the magazine.
Tucking hair behind an ear, her face smiles without relaxing. She walks to the dinette table and puts her handbag and tray of chips down.
-Right, I’ll get the tea out.-
The plates scraping together brings the top half of a head above the couch. Something caught in her throat to see his dimmed pale eyes frantically search the table.
-Is it hot this time?-
-Em, yeah. Perfect eating temperature.-
Getting up, he prowls around the table, trying to decipher the lumps and bumps beneath the wrapping. Looking at the two plates and back to the wrapped tray, his eyes and eyebrows meet in discussion.
Striding forward, he takes over the unwrapping that Fiona had barely begun. He stops unwrapping the mushy peas when his suspicion is successfully met. Unravelling the next parcel he lifts the lid of the carton and takes a step back. Fiona’s eyes flick in his direction.
-S’this?- His finger thrusts at the king rib, perfectly relaxed across perspiring chips.
-And why is it on my chips?-
-Well, that is a King Rib.-
-I know what it’s called.-
-I… I thought I might have a wee bite to eat seeing as I was up so early getting your toast and I’ll be up late washing the uniform that you still have on…-
-It was too cold to get changed!-
Fiona see’s the eyes flare to life from the all too familiar smouldering she witnessed upon walking in.
-And food!-
He grabs the rib tightly in his fist not noticing how cool it had become.
-Why should you get to eat? You lied to the police and put dad in jail, now we have to live here and you want to eat?-
Instinctively Fiona reaches for her throat and steps back against the wall. She feels the healing scar along her neck, and wonders when the pain will end.
About the Author
Born in Dunfermline, raised on the Orkney Isles and now residing in Cheshire, Andrew Velzian says he scribbles a few stories in between working and sleeping.