A Matter of Vinegar

A drenched office worker ducked into my narrow recess to escape the drizzle, clutching a steaming brown paper bag of chips. He leaned his shoulder against the damp concrete right below my jaw, blowing frantically on a blistering potato wedge. I slid my dark sunglasses down a fraction and muttered into the cool air, 'Salt-to-vinegar ratio is a serious moral dilemma, mate. Don't rush it.' The poor bloke froze with the chip suspended inches from his mouth, scanning both ends of the empty lane before staring directly into my stencil eyes. He exhaled a long puff of steam, shook his head in quiet disbelief, and gently nudged the fragrant paper bag toward my painted nose.