Frank enjoyed the grand spaces you could claim as your own should you wake early enough to do so. It was often hard to beat dog-walkers to it, but wintertime made it easier, it put people off like cold-sore kisses.
Frank once spent five hours alone in the company of The Angel of The North, where beneath one of her wings he sat inside a sleeping bag zipped up over his head with only a little space for his face to poke out from. There were two things Frank could do effectively looking like that, the first was an impression of a mummy, the second was an impression of a worm, but with nobody there to judge, he never was sure which impression was best.
It was a shame Frank thought, to not share such moments as this with somebody else, because things not shared can seem so unreal - and like the flight Frank took in the arms of The Angel of The North herself, the unreal can become so real when nobody thinks to ask you otherwise.
Lorrie awoke. It was still morning and the pier was empty except for Frank sat there next to her, still in his white attire, looking like a borstal teen in gym gear. Lorrie stuck her fingers in the gaps between the planks of decking either side of her. She looked ready to take off on a magic carpet ride.
Did I faint? She asked Frank
Yeah, I think so, you fell so slowly that you looked so peaceful with it, like your body yawned you to a position that lacked any tension. You looked completely happy.
I'm sorry, She said
Don’t be sorry, why would you be sorry? Frank asked
Because I'm sat on your tracksuit and you’re cold.
But I'm not cold, He said
And Lorrie looked at his nipples and up at Frank’s eyes and they both laughed and Frank helped Lorrie up, and when on their feet the sea-breeze did tug at them and Frank took Lorrie’s hand and told her to stay, and no more did they struggle, and through the lenses of her sunglasses, Lorrie saw a man who should never wear a tracksuit ever again.