This place has salted air. The sea and buttered popcorn create a damp, salty sweet that hangs captured in the heat. The waves hush the popping emitting from the red-striped machine and the noise of children squawking. Their sea-foam lips pull back with a sigh when the agitation continues.
Bells ring when someone exits a shop with a colourful front. I walk along the sidewalk farther down the beach, looking down at my worn blue sneakers. Someone throws a bright red frisbee to their golden retriever. He jumps and catches it in his slobbering jaws.
The lighthouse stands behind them, a hideous new coat of bright white paint covering its stormy grey surface. Nicks from the ocean beating it, scrapes from the wind hassling it, splashes of sunlight—all covered with a dripping white lie.