I force the protective glasses over Sunday’s eyes. She’s being ridiculous.
It’s a given that Sunday doesn’t care about the solar eclipse, because the more people express interest in something, the more my friend makes a point of expressing her singular disinterest. We’re surrounded by interest: the crowd is thrumming and clicking with it. They have brought their cameras, their families, plane tickets from the other side of the world, their social media, and the correct eyewear.
And if Sunday doesn’t care about the solar eclipse like everyone else, then clearly she doesn’t need protective eyewear, like everyone else in the crowd is currently wearing.
That’s fine, except I can see her sneaking a peek over her book to look directly at the sun.
I swallow a scream of frustration and that’s when I wrestle the glasses over Sunday’s eyes, like a mum pulling a baby’s hat over its too-large head.
Sunday smiles. It’s a sliver grinning from between curtains of dark hair. “Thanks. But we won’t see anything this way.”
The moon is eating into the sun’s side like a bite out of a biscuit. I half-expect to hear crunching.
The sky is darkening. The crowd grows hushed, but the clicking of camera shutters rises to fill the void. We sound like a swarm of crickets.
“What, we won’t see spots from our irreparable eye damage?”
“No.” Sunday pats my hand. From under her glasses her black-eyed stare looks insectlike. “We won’t see them.”
I turn away. With Sunday behind me, I peek with my naked eyes, just for a second.
I see black spots crawling on the sun. I hear them in the crowd. My shaking hands fumble for my glasses.