The journey had been grim – holiday traffic and out-of-date satnav software. By the time we arrived, we both doubted whether this week-end would salvage the marriage.
The hotel was unpromising. Too many stairs and no view of the sea.
After a poor dinner, Dave went up ahead of me. He had the sulks over something.
The barman said, “Room 127. It’s on your floor. Have a look.”
I did. Inside was the beach and far out was the sea. Low tide. People sunbathing, covered in oil. Children playing cricket and flying kites. A man selling ice cream. A distant red sail.
I stepped inside. Closed the door. Walked on the sand.
For a while I sat in one of the deck chairs on the pier enjoying the sun on my back and watching the world go by. That was until Sven, the bronzed young lifesaver, came by.
“I’m off duty now. Let’s get something to drink,” he said.
I was worried that our difference in age would bother him, but if it does, he hasn’t once shown it over the last ten years.
As for Dave, well, I’m not sure what world he frequents and actually rarely give him a thought.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction 200 word challenge.