Brightlington

It was a wonderful place for a honeymoon.

He had booked a room in a quaint old public house, just a short drive from the coast, in the tiny village of Brightlington. Each night they would drive along the seaside promenade, each time choosing a different place to eat. He particularly remembered their final night there, feeling quite sad that they had to move on. It was a warm evening and they had strolled along the promenade for a while before stopping to watch the moon create silver sparkles over the ocean. At that moment she had told him how much she loved him and how she wanted to stay by his side forever.

Now, forty-three years later, in Broxtonly, a town not so very far away, they had been late-night shopping. The rain had been pounding down relentlessly and they were having trouble buying the things they need. She was becoming increasingly frustrated. He had been told several times that he was more of a hindrance than a help!

Finally, having groceries on her list, she suggested that he wait outside the shop while she went in; she could do better on her own.

He stood beneath the leaky awning, moving around to avoid the rain.

His thoughts went back to Brightlington.