Chk chk chk, the machine told me. I didn't understand; not one word. All I knew was that it wouldn't give me my money. I needed that money. I tried saying please but was rewarded only with another chk.
I considered my options. How about a kebab then? This time there was a vvvvrrrrrr and I became aware of the sweet sweet smell of long grilled animal fat. I waited. The street was deserted. I checked my phone, reread some txts. The vvvvrrrrrring stopped and into the tray dropped the perfect doner. Moist and rich fillets of donerbeast sat snuggly in the pitta bread, topped with a thin layer of lettuce and spring onion and a drizzle of chili sauce, scarlet, flecked with seeds. In my hands the pitta held firm and there was no overspill, even when I took that first bite.
I turned to walk off but paused. Sorry I... . The machine chked. We shared a moment. I didn't want to leave, I really didn't, but there was no more to be done. To stay is to betray, as my father once said.
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