Clouds and the smell of seaweed hang over Collaroy. The air is cold and a breeze drives it into every gap. Cars stop at the lights. A truck leads them off again with a tired roar of carcinogens. Two people walk past; the man says nothing, loudly, and they walk into the club. On the next seat along, a woman huddles in her track suit.
A bicycle comes up and the rider's eyes are cold with rebellion, with challenge and mockery. He dawdles, searching, with his air of youth and insolence, and his skin turned to leather by so many decades at the beach.
There's nothing here for him, and he drifts away.