Morning.

The last day of our holiday.

A seagull shat a pancake of turd on the path then flew sunwards over the caravan as I listened to him sleep. He breathed a sudden door rattling intake then released a slow relentless wheeze. A decade I’d been coming here and lying next to that. I could stand no more.

It stopped, the bedroom door opened and he joined me at the table.
Poured cereal.
Farted.
Scraped the pattern off the bowl as he ate.

“D’you fancy a walk along the cliffs?”
I thought.
Smiled.
Then nodded.

It sounded like a perfect ending.