Filet-O-Fish

The McDonald's on the A57 is open all night. The inside is closed but the drive-through stays on. The speaker hums even when no one's there - a low note, like a fridge in a dark kitchen.

Every night between 12:45 and 1:15, a blue Vauxhall Corsa pulls up to the speaker. The window is already down. The man inside leans toward the intercom.

"Filet-O-Fish, please."

"Filet-O-Fish. Anything else?"

"No."

"Drive through to the window."

He pays. He takes the bag. He parks in the far corner of the car park, under the broken light, and eats it in the car with the radio on low.

He doesn't like Filet-O-Fish. He has never liked it. He tried one in 2019 because his daughter ordered one and he had a bite and said "that's not bad" and his daughter said "you don't like it, Dad" and he ate the rest of hers to prove it and she watched him chew and said "your face says you're lying."

His daughter is twenty-three now. She lives in Bristol. They talk on Sundays. This isn't about her. Not directly.

The Filet-O-Fish is about the word. He likes saying it. Filet-O-Fish. The way it sounds in the intercom at 1 AM. The way the staff repeat it back without hesitation, like it's normal, like people order fish sandwiches at 1 AM all the time. The "Filet" is soft. The "O" is round. The "Fish" is flat. Three syllables that don't belong together. A phrase assembled by committee. Someone in a room somewhere decided those words went in that order and they've been stuck together since, like a small, strange, slightly sad sandwich.

His wife asked him once - months ago, before she stopped asking - why he goes to McDonald's every night.

"I like the Filet-O-Fish."

"You don't like Filet-O-Fish."

"I like ordering it."

She didn't ask what that meant. She's good at knowing when to stop. That's one of the things.

He finishes the sandwich. He folds the wrapper. He puts it in the bag. He starts the engine. The radio is still on. He doesn't hear it. He backs out and pulls onto the A57 and drives home.

Tomorrow night the blue Corsa will pull up to the speaker again. The window will be down. He will say: "Filet-O-Fish, please." And the voice will say: "Filet-O-Fish. Anything else?" And the man will say: "No."

And the speaker will hum. And the broken light will still be broken. And the Filet-O-Fish will be the same. And the word will be the same word. And the transaction will be complete.