We looked towards the horizon through sea-sprayed eyes and matted fringes.
You were my sharp-eyed figurehead. Your sand-gritted legs curled round the sturdy neck; small hands gripping its beak.
I lounged, fingers dangling, as we bobbed over the waves.
We’d come a long way.
Back onshore, striped towels were shrinking, beach umbrellas became cocktail sticks.
I heard it first. The hissing sound. The flamingo’s head began to droop.
Slipping off into the water, I kicked hard into the angry undercurrent. But you were already drifting, cross-legged on the slippery plastic, and calling for the circling seagulls to carry us home.