The wind bellows. The sea lies still in calm rebuttal. Lycra-clad middle-aged men and pregnant ladies zig-zag past each other in pursuit of Powerade. The food trucks stand in defiance of such endeavours.
The wind lessens. Briefly, the sun’s heat seeps in and fashionable couples shed their sensible layers. They know they’ll regret it soon. Seagulls argue with pigeons, both parties strutting about with a regal air that only the most persistent animals can affect.
The wind relents. Hordes of primary school children march up and down the walkways, consuming bite-sized chunks of culture. The blue sky is covered in thin splotches of cloud, an unfinished job by a cheap tradie.
The wind picks up again. You can smell the salt in the air now. It mixes with concrete and rust and gives the weather an earthy edge. The sea lies still.