She poked the greasy paper with the worn toe of her winter boot. A faint aroma of no-longer-hot chips wafted from it, sending the seagulls screeching with possibility. 

“It’s empty, you morons,” she shrieked back. Shouting at seagulls was one of her more satisfying hobbies these days. They stared at her for a moment then flapped away in the wind. “Suit yourselves,” she bellowed after them. Not much of a conversation maybe. But better than nothing. She’d settle for that these days.

Her eyes drifted to a young couple kissing furiously at the bus stop. Only teenagers in lust and mad old women like herself would bother with the beach in this weather. But if she closed her eyes for a minute, she could imagine it was a summer’s day. The whoops of the kids on the trampolines, the sweet sizzle smell from old George churning out fresh donuts for the never ending queue of carb-hungry day trippers. 

Every Friday afternoon they’d have one, her and Fred. She could almost feel the sticky itch of the sugar on her fingers.  “This is a good habit,” he would declare. Every time. Nothing if not predictable, her Fred. They’d walk along the promenade first, hand in hand like always. Sharing snippets of news.

She sighed away her loneliness, and stared out at the bathing pool. The dark square of its wall just poking through the high tide. It had been a long time since she’d felt its rough walls under her fingertips. Maybe she never would again. Life eh, funny old business.

Oh well, she declared out loud, though not even the seagulls were listening this time. Pulling her worn coat around her, tight against the wind, she heaved her old bones off the bench. No point moping around here girlie. Best get yourself home and get the kettle on before the rain sets in.