To help her forget, she sits by the sea and thinks.
The city does not appeal to Nat for several reasons. It is too loud and chaotic for her liking - a place she can never picture herself living in even for the short amount of time she knows she has left. The air is nowhere near as fresh in the city, instead choking with the pollution of society and the "modern economy"; the one being built by sharp-suited businessmen who can talk in circles for years on end for all she cares.
Perhaps that is the major benefit that comes as a result of living by the sea. In the defence of outer civilisation, those closer to the waves are more susceptible to flooding and the like, but Natasha regards this is an unfortunate side-effect and something that must be put up with without much of a choice. The air of the sea is one of the most rewarding scents on this Earth and yet so taken for granted, rejected the gratitude it deserves.
This is Nat's unashamedly biased opinion.
So almost every day, she will wheel out her raggedy old deckchair (the faded blue and red one with the strips of cloth running all the way down) and drag it the whole way down to the beach, rain or shine, no matter what. She will sit next to the sea, and breathe in the air - cold and rigid, with the slightest waft of sweet salt water. It is her common routine, and she has followed it for nearly twelve years and three quarters.
As a memory-wiping technique, it has no success whatsoever, but she enjoys it anyway, refusing to give up. Just in case.
It is summer now. The beach remains empty. The weather is no better than usual, but Natasha likes to make the most of it. In more ways than one. Her days are numbered. So are the days of the worn grey cliffs below her home. It is the small white one right at the top, above the seventh ridge on the left, concealed behind a tuft of yellowgrass, and to the naked eye as good as invisible.
On especially bad days, the waves grow so high they crash against the house as well as the cliffs. Today is not so bad. The sky is not as murky and black as days gone by, and the waves not so rough. The crash of the water meeting the sand, over and over on a never-ending loop is soothing to her. She stares at the water and reflects, both literally and figuratively. She thinks about her long life and the things she has done and the thing she would change.
And then, more often than not, nods off to sleep.
Today she is sleeping. But there is something in the sky.
A plane is heading for the beach. It is moving very fast, out of control and in her direction.
She will not be asleep for much longer.
