On a busy Cannes beach. Alone. Marriage over. Future hazy. Sands of time whisper through his fingers. Sand that used to be solid rock.
The shush of waves lull him. Or perhaps it’s the supermarché plonk in his sports bottle.
If he sits here all day the waves will lick him with salty water. If he sits here for twenty-six years – the length of his marriage – will the waves’ gentle, ceaseless motion scour him to sand?
He raises his bottle to the sea and toasts to a hazy future. Sand is durable. And gritty. It can be ground no further.
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