One of Us by Iain Rowan

said, and pushed the plastic tray of burger and chips across to the customer. Asif was leaning on the counter next to me, back to his usual job but killing time with no orders to deliver.
    The customer screwed his face up. “Eh?” He was a short dog of a man. Those ones that pull hard at their leads all the time, and do not have a neck.
    “Three pounds, and seventy-five pence please,” I said again, speaking more slowly in case he was deaf, or maybe stupid.
    He put his hand behind his ear, just as if he was deaf. “How about in English, love.”
    I said nothing, just looked at him. My English was better than his was.
    “Aye, you lot can fucking ask for money all right,” he said. “Know that much fucking English, don’t you. Always with your hand out.”
    I said nothing. He was drunk. I could smell the alcohol. What was there to say that would make any difference? The man snorted a laugh, nodded as if my just being there had confirmed to him the gospel truth of everything that he said. He counted out some money, and slapped it down on the counter, as if he did not want to risk dropping it into my hand in case he caught something.
    “Fucking disgrace,” he said. I dropped his change down onto the counter. He scooped it into his pocket, picked up his food. “What? What?” This was addressed to Asif, who had come to stand behind the counter, saying nothing.
    “Nothing,” Asif said. “Just looking.”
    “Aye, I fucking bet.” The man strutted out of the door, not bothering to close it behind him.
    “Just looking,” Asif said again, “So when you come in here next I remember your face so I can go stick my finger up my arse then wipe it in your burger.”
    I laughed. “Asif, that is very bad.”
    “Yeah,” he grinned. “It is, innit.”
    “Wash your hands afterwards,” I said.
    “Course,” Asif said, looking offended. “What you think I am, unhygienic or something?”
    ~
    I had arranged to meet Daniel for lunch, because lunch said less things than dinner did. Friends had lunch. Besides, I was at work late in the evening, and I did not want to have a nice dinner and then go to work and stand in the thick smell of chargrilling meat all night.
    “What do you fancy?” Daniel said when he picked me up outside the hostel. “Other than me, obviously.” He was wearing a dark blue jacket over what looked like expensive jeans, a shirt open at the collar to show a very slim gold necklace that almost was not there at all. I felt scruffy in my dress that I had bought from a sale in a shop where everything was already cheap before the sale. But I liked my shoes. I hoped he had noticed my shoes.
    “Somewhere nice,” I said. “Anywhere nice.”
    “I can do nice,” he said, and he pulled out into the road, and I felt like I was leaving a life behind as we left the kerb.
    Daniel took me to an Italian restaurant, which was all wooden panels and bunches of plastic grapes, candles and shadows. It was quiet, and the waiters treated me like I was the most important person they had seen that day. I was not used to this. Not any more. But I could like it, I thought. I could like this. This is life like the normal people lead, a life like I once had. The normal people do jobs, they have worries, but now and again they go to a restaurant and enjoy a few hours where they feel special. I realised how long it had been since I had felt special.
    “I’ll order the wine,” Daniel said, as if by not doing so we would be swapping my skirt for his trousers. He looked down the wine list with a frown.
    “Sure,” I said. “You’re the man. But just to let you know, number thirteen is good.”
    “Mmm,” he said. The waiter came back, and asked us what we would like to drink. “What do you recommend?” Daniel said.
    “The Barolo is very good, sir,” the waiter said. “Number thirteen.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Daniel said. “We’ll have a bottle of that.”
    “Excellent choice, sir.”
    “I make a lot of