Peacock Blue

The third time the beach ball hit the roof, Kurt sprang from his deckchair and yelled at the culprits, shaking his fist like Popeye the sailor.

‘Well honestly,’ he muttered under his breath as he sank back into the low chair next to mine, under the nylon arc of the sun-shelter. He shook the sand off his newspaper and balanced it back on his leg, covering his ugly scar from where they had chopped out the tumor. I watched, jaws clenched, as the guys jeered and resumed their play, their ...

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