Sandfly

She could have been red with anger, it was difficult to tell, what
with the sunburn and the lipstick. She sure was not happy though. From
the waters edge where I was walking, tiptoeing on sharp shingle and
cursing the rubbish of cans and condoms she resembled a gale driven
windmill, such was the ferocity of her roundhouses. It was odd, almost
a ballet, the recipient of her maelstrom had the knack of guiding
himself just out of reach as if trained by a master.
A ducker of a dancer.

As I ambled closer up the beach under the pretence of buying a cornet
with a flake from the ice cream stall, but really out of interest to
grasp an understanding of the incident that was unravelling (I was not
the only one, for there were now a few of us, the ice cream boy was
looking excitingly nervous) I heard the vocal undertow from the
protagonists.

'Come on angel, cut me if you can.'

'I'll slash your face so that they can play noughts and crosses with
it.'

'You could not cut a loaf of bread love.'

Now, it would have been prudent to intervene at this point, to maybe
call the police or at the very least make a protest, but we didn't, not
one of us. We did what we never intended to do.

We brought ice creams with chocolate flakes from the overworked boy
from Naples.