Sitting on the rocks by the lighthouse,
the occasional cool spray of ocean on our faces,
Lucy says,
Are you homeless?
No. I live up Poughill way.
Cool.
So we should go to yours.
Nothing about her voice believes me,
though I’m not sure how I gave anything away.
Is this how Marla feels whenever she speaks?
Like the world is sneering.
A seagull lands a few metres from us,
a half loaf of bread in its beak.
We can go whenever you like.
Right now if you want.
The seagull squawks.
I’m meeting someone. Can’t.
She throws a stone at the seagull.
Birds are idiots.