The beach hut has its back to the town,
face to the sea,
a full view of the Atlantic –
a straight line all the way to America
if you had the guts to get going.
The wood smells of mint and mould.
I could live here, I murmur to the girl,
who is drying off the dog with a dishcloth.
She laughs,
tells me about the time her brother
moved in
for a week,
when he was studying for his A levels
and couldn’t stand the sound of drumming.
Who plays the drums? I ask.
I do, she says casually,
like that sort of thing could be ordinary.
Her name is Lucy
and she speaks
as though the world has always listened to her.
I can’t look her in the eye.
I examine the floorboards,
scrutinise the dog’s paws and
the jelly-fish-patterned rug.
She glances up at the mute roof.
It’s stopped raining, she says,
which I take to mean,
You can leave now.
So I do.