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Riding a Pink Flamingo – Linda Woodhams

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.