"Look at this beautiful sand castle!" the boy's mother says, moments before he kicks it apart.
The professor's voice is undercut by a steady 'scrape scrape scrape' like wood getting planed by hand. It comes from three seats in front of me. A woman is scratching her arm, showering large flakes of skin.
Alcohol isn't allowed on the beach, but who would look twice at their coffee thermos, even if they pour its contents into plastic shot glasses.
The skin cooks, and the wind cools it.
A dog on the beach frisking away from the incoming water, then leaping after it as it retreats.
The girl takes off her flip-flops, holds one in each hand, and twirls on the sand.
I ask her why she rarely says anything kind to me. I don't get the answer I want to hear, though I do get the one I expect.