A brood of oiled and sun-shaded writers stretch out on striped beach chairs, pretending to relax after their morning workshop. Each holds a book, but their eyes wander. They are still caught in the teeth of their own stories. They peer over the top of their books, across the combed sand strip to where the water winks, a glassy mosaic.
From the bar perched on the sea wall above comes the hum of voices, the clink of glass, the strains of some faint, fretful music. Fabric umbrellas flutter in the breeze.
A short, sharp cry, over quickly. Their heads swivel to see something falling, not as sudden as a stone, but lightly, sunlight flashing on metal.
One writer squints.
A careless child, she thinks, tossing the silver ring pull of a drink can. A scolding slap on the hand from a kind, but emotionally unavailable parent.
Another raises himself on one elbow.
A silver coin, he thinks, knocked unnoticed from a pile of change on a table’s edge. The waiter flinching at how lightly these overseas customers toss money around.
Another jumps at the sound of a face being slapped, light steps running away. So much has circled and fallen, dropping soundlessly into the sand the colour of sunlight soap, the soap best used to slip a stubborn ring off a finger. Later, someone will crouch there, hands sifting, sifting.
The writers look down at their books again, and try and glue their thoughts to the black and white lines.
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