Therapy Bits

The paper parcel was still warm in my hands, the faint scent of vinegar escaping through tiny holes in the wrapping. I walked down the weathered boardwalk toward the sea, my sandals slapping softly against the wood, until I found an empty spot on the sand where the wind smelled like salt and sun-warmed seaweed.

The waves were rolling in lazy and blue, the kind of afternoon rhythm that made you forget what time it was. I unwrapped the parcel, the paper crackling like a small fire, and there it was—the golden, crisp perfection of fish and chips. Steam rose into the salty air. The first bite of fish was pure bliss: flaky white inside, crunchy outside, just enough grease to glisten on my fingertips.

A few gulls edged closer, eyeing my meal with professional curiosity. One gave a sharp cry, as if announcing to the others that a sucker had arrived. I tossed them a single chip—well, maybe two—and they exploded into a flurry of wings and feathers.

The wind picked up a little, teasing the edges of the paper, and I held it down with my palm. The chips were getting cooler now, a bit soggy from the sea air, but somehow that made them better—like they belonged here. Each bite was part of the scene: the hiss of the surf, the distant laughter of children building sandcastles, the hum of a radio playing an old song about summer.

By the time I finished, the sun had dipped lower, painting the waves in gold. I folded the empty paper neatly, brushed the sand from my knees, and watched the last of the gulls drift away toward the horizon.

There was something quietly perfect about that moment—just me, the beach, and the taste of salt and vinegar lingering on my lips.

Writing Prompts – Esther Chilton