eighteen
Rose woke to the sound of an early morning tide crashing against the rocks. Hair had fallen across her face and was tickling her nose and upper lip. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the grooves in the ceiling. The patio curtain arched inwards, caught in a strong gust of wind. From outside, she could hear the distant sound of a rumbling truck and workmen who shouted jollily to each other. Rose fumbled for her glasses and found them on the bedside table next to her phone, which informed her it was seven-thirty. Her thoughts wandered to last night; a lovely meal, followed by a few drinks in the hotel bar. It hadn’t been a late night; everyone was weary after the journey and the alcohol had intensified the tiredness. This morning, Rose felt fresh, and excited for wha
