Early twenties, long fair hair, attractive, blue-jeaned; Dutch maybe. Camping on the beach, I'd say. Sitting with her travelling companion at the next table.
He’s at the bar, shimmying, the local Ronaldo. Thirty-five-ish, pint in fist, massaging with his left a roll of belly overflowing between t-shirt and jeans. Outlining a game-plan; the trio around him, “ gwan horse !”
Then full-sail on the open sea, he crosses the floor to where she’s sitting.
On the dance square he’s doing a jive-waltz-dribble sort of thing, breaking it occasionally to lob the odd word down her ear-hole. And of course there’s twirl, lots of twirl. The locals know the story, little smiles on their faces.
Back at the bar, anticipation-pricked, he’s warming the lads; his shimmies becoming daintier, more intricate like.
Now he calls another pint......and a glass. The glass crosses the floor, the pint too.
Stool patted, down goes the arse and it’s chat, chat, chittidy, chattedy,chit chat; belly massaged and then another pint.
Back at the bar, collecting his pint, horn-filled, brimming. Rono, ya beauty!
She sees her chance to bolt.
“Hey........where the fuck……. ?”
“Fucking bitch. Outa my way."