Dejection

She sat on the cold, deserted beach, her legs tucked into her chest, arms folded around them, chin on her knees. The sky was the grey of ancient white laundry and equally crumpled.

Not a soul in sight.

The damp of the sand seeped through her jeans and numbed her, but she didn't seem to notice. Her eyes, pools of washed-out blue, reflected the churning uneasiness of the disgruntled sea. The gently insistent breeze toyed with loose strands of her hair. Unacknowledged, a tear travelled slowly over the curve of her cheek, through the dip below it and off the sharp edge of her jaw. It disappeared into her sodden sleeve. How long had she been there?

Throughout the morning, dog-walkers came and went; unrecognised, unsaluted. More than once was curious attention cast her way, only to be dismissed again as the next distraction loomed. As midday approached she was once again alone, only the neglected lighthouse on nearby cliffs for company.

She had begun to shiver. It didn't seem to cause her much concern. Not once did her eyes leave the horizon. What was she waiting for?

As the sun began its descent into the sea, she seemed to wake a little from her reverie. She blinked a few times and slowly, painfully, extended her legs along the sand. In a lazy sweep, she stretched out her arms and arched her back, pointing her toes. Awkwardly, unsteadily she raised herself to her feet and shuffled, head bent, out of sight.

Tomorrow?

She would do it all again.