Chicken Wraps. Flash fiction by Rebecca Metcalfe

I could make a list of all the places we’ll go when this is over: the walks we’ll go on, the museums we’ll wander, the castles we’ll climb and the bars we’ll drink at after. All the places we’ll go and the people we’ll meet: all the adventures and memories we’ll make. And we won’t be two metres apart. Top of that list would be Chester and Cornwall: the walls and the sea. Swapping stories in each other’s favourite places and seeing them through each other’s eyes. And we won’t be two metres apart. Two hundred miles apart. But right now in lockdown, stuck at opposite ends of the country, that’s not what I look forward to most. What I miss most are the memories that won’t end up in photo albums or on Instagram, because they’re not worth photographing. I want to stand in your kitchen wearing one of your jumpers that comes down past my knees and the slippers you bought me while you make us both a chicken wrap, surrounded by the sound of ‘Nothing but Love’. Chicken dippers, 20 minutes in the oven with a slice of cheese on top, wrapped in a tortilla with some chopped tomatoes and a squirt of chilli mayo. And we ’ll stick some QI on the telly and we’ll eat them on the sofa, sharing a plate because we can’t be bothered to wash up two. And nothing about it will be memorable but we’ll remember it anyway because it’s perfect and it’s ours. And we won’t be two metres apart.


Born in Essex, Rebecca Metcalfe studied at the University of Chester and then at the University of Liverpool. She now lives in an attic in Manchester with two black cats and (pandemic permitting) works part time in a museu m and part time in a restaurant. She can be found on Twitter at @beckyannwriter

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