He remains where he is, leaning forward slightly into the wind. He brings up his arms, gracefully, until his elbows are level with his shoulders, relaxing his wrists so that his fingers hang downwards from his hands, casting feather-shaped shadows on the beach. Roy is wearing Sylvia’s shoes, which are size eight, and her clothes. In addition to her range of white and pink T-shirts and jeans, she has a selection of loose unisex and men’s clothes; work shirts and sweat pants or combat trousers. He turns up the sleeves and belts the trousers in tight, the material hanging off his skinny bones. Once or twice he has wondered why she has a whole wardrobe full of men’s clothes. Has she ever had another man here? He once asked her where she got the clothes and she shrugged and said, ‘I’ve always had them.’ Leaning comfortably on the windowsill above the radiator in the kitchen, enjoying a mid-morning break, Sylvia watches him. Unaware, facing out towards the sea, he remains motionless for fifteen minutes until the weight of his own arms is uncomfortable and he drops them to his side, shaking his hands so that his fingers clack together.
