August Rathbone loved June Millner as soon as he heard her name; the sight of her sealed the deal. Lucky for him, she felt the same.
For six years, they had been in love. She didn't make it easy for him; jewelry, flowers, and chocolates were placeholders for true expressions of affection, in her opinion. Each year, August found himself on the hunt for a precise present, something that could only be hers, never regifted or slighted.
This year's prize was to be a special pair of sunglasses: John Lennon frames, olive green lenses - the color was a common motif in June's wardrobe, so it was a safe enough bet. When he presented them to her at their apartment, she rewarded his diligence very sweetly and very thoroughly.
One Saturday, they reached her least favorite part of a Saturday afternoon: the twenty-minute interval where the sun is low enough to pierce directly into their living room, until the orb sinks below the urban horizon. On this particular Saturday, she decided to look at the world through peridot-colored glasses, and slipped them on. June froze where she stood, until the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers.
That night, she didn't speak, and certainly not about what she saw. Whenever August tried to get a word out of her, she just babblingly giggled until she embraced him into silence.
The next morning, she was relatively composed. And when August asked about the prior day, she shrugged and said, "I don't know." And her Sunday was like any other, until that moment of the afternoon where she returned again to the window- this time, pressing up against it, scanning as much of the city as she could, until the light faded.
On Monday, she made arrangements at work to move her lunch hour, so she could return home at the moment of alignment. On Tuesday, she brought home a farmer's almanac, and sketchpads.
On Thursday, it rained, and rained. By Friday, the clouds persisted, and June was getting anxious. When August went to bed that night, he left her at the couch to flip between weather reports among the stations.
On Saturday, they were both home from work. The rain had returned, decreeing a day in. August was satisfied with a day in pajamas; June was inconsolable. After some prodding, she produced her sketchbooks and offered her confession. "I've been selfish. If I've been reading the almanac right, today will be my last chance for the season, and then it'll just be stupid sunlight again."
August looked up from a sketch with disbelief. "Why wouldn't you tell me?"
"If I told you, I'd have to show you... but I didn't want to give up a second of it. I'm sorry."
There was a break in the clouds; June jumped out of her chair, and urged him to follow. August was three steps behind, papers in hand, when he stepped into the piercing sunlight. He covered his eyebrows, to give his eyes shade. He didn't see the carriages and zeppelins that June had drawn on her landscapes. August looked at June, waiting for her explanation. She smirked and passed him the glasses.
inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Trapping the Light Fantastic"
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