at the chip shop last night ...

I went to the chip shop late, near 10, though it was still light. Hungry cause it was a long day yesterday at Writer's Day, and our dinner was tapas, which never satisfies, unless you're willing to spend a ridiculous amount of money. Anyway, the guy at the counter, (young, perhaps in his late 20's, dark hair with a very conservative cut, dark eyes, olive skin, could be middle eastern, greek ...?) is the one who gave me extra chips last time and we had shared a quick knowing smile when he added another scoop. I came in, smiling, flirting my way into extra chips. But of course this time somehow instead of just saying "large chips, salt", a pantomine of customer and clerk, I repeated myself, stumbled, spoke the words over twice. A dead give-away. He said, "Where are you from?" "America" I said, already deflating, but still playing along with this game that is starting to become familiar. His hand, hovering, let's go of the scoop, he starts to wrap up the normal ration of chips. "Where do you think I am from?" A minefield. He gives a half-smile, looks at me narrowly. A horrid and terrible minefield I refuse to step in. If I say Greek he could be Turkish, (and they are enemies from way back), if I say Syrian or just Middle Eastern, Iranian? I keep repeating "I don't know" lightly, as he keeps saying, "Guess...", insistent now, and with a look in his eye that is not joking. Finally he says, "Iraq". I only hear the hard "kk" at the end, "Where?" "I'm from Iraq", he repeats. His eyes are intent, are asking me to answer some other question--not the one he just asked. No I am not making that up, it is not just a poetic or metaphoric device. There is a whole volume of words behind his look, just as there is when I turn to look back up at him again, flirtation over, thinking like a flash, "I'm so sorry," but biting my words down because this is a chip shop and he and I are just two people, and I have no idea what his life is or who his people are ... I can guess that with deaths from the war estimated at over 1 million in a country with a population of about 30 million, with 1 in 30 dead he knows someone, some friend or relative or colleague, who died due to the war, the violence, the starvation. And he says, "One pound seventy five" and I hand him 2 quid and he gives me my change. And I leave the shop with my wrapped packet of chips, and walk the alley back home, as the twilight turns the sky purple, streaked with red.