The ghosts of Little Chef past drifted around the new Starbucks cafe at Barnetby Interchange.

A perpetual drone from the A180 riviera echoed along the mundane stretch of unremarkable tarmac.

It tuned into a couple passing under the bridge of grey bathed in Audi pride.

Blue masks. Alcoholic cologne. Jaded drumbeats.

‘Neither of us are great conversationalists.’ Another she said to another he.

Distortion.

It tuned out, turning it’s attention to the residual sound emanating from a lost wheel trim gleaming in the late summer sun.

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