The man at the table next to me looked like a Rottweiler in khaki shorts. Pieces of bacon leapt from his jowls down his Hawaiian shirt and rolled onto the floor. They were the lucky ones. A helium fish balloon bobbed above diners’ heads, chasing the squealing kid that had it tied to his wrist on a string. He tripped on a chair leg. The dull thump of his forehead on the linoleum floor was met with the pop of his balloon friend. Brief silence was broken by anguished screams. No one looked up.
You smiled at me. Your face was sun burnt and it looked like it hurt. That smile was a chocolate chip pancake in a sea of burnt waffles. I could taste that smile. Even through the instant coffee smog and smell of a dozen children glazed in sun-cream that sweaty Saturday morning by the sea. I tried to talk to you but you were wearing headphones. If you’d let me I think I could be your new favourite song. Because the record of my week has had seeing you on repeat.
Let’s go to the beach.