Dead End Town

I nip out to smoke a fag by the railings, hugging myself for warmth against blustery winds. The promenade's empty today, apart from the odd person hurrying towards the pub and shops. The sea's dull and unsettled, the sand tangled with seaweed and broken shells. Dirty clouds sail across the sky, reminding me of sheep's wool and nursery rhymes.  
 
I'm halfway down my cigarette when a tallish guy with a hint of Mediterranean approaches in a black nylon jacket and woolly hat, carrying a sports bag over his right shoulder.  
 
'Oi,' he calls.
 
It's Zipper.  
 
I recognise him straightaway, even though he's changed almost completely since the last time we met.  He looks a lot older than sixteen, and he's widened and put on muscle or weight. The excited eyes and the impish gleam have gone, replaced by eyes that have seen too many disappointments, broken promises and dead ends in life.  
 
He walks with a swagger now, just like Mum's boyfriend Simon used to, but it's him, and I'm really pleased to see him.