We walked across the beach eating hot chips from newspaper wrappings, lifting each one out and blowing on it ‘til it was just cool enough to eat. Then we licked the ketchup and salt from our fingertips.
It was cold. Bloody cold. The kind of cold that makes your ears ache and your teeth jitter, so we held hands to keep warm. I picked up a tiny shell, all pink and pearlescent with a frilled edge and you found a perfect little pebble, smooth and round. You went down to the water’s edge to wash off the sand and grit and gave it to me.
You told me that the strange, undulating cloud over the pier was a flock of starlings, all flying together, like a puff of black smoke. A murmuration.