We sat on the steps of the black cathedral in the sunshine. When the sun passed behind the clouds you said, look at the moon. I laughed. That's the sun, I said. No, you said, because you can look straight at it. A clear, white circle. It's the moon.
You're stoned, I said. Keep watching.
And the clouds moved on and the moon turned into the sun, and we were both blinded, and we collapsed with laughter on the black rock steps.
When we climbed the spiral staircase we were still blind. We spiralled upwards in the dark until we couldn't breathe and then emerged into the light, panting. You'd never been up before. The red roofs glinted below and clouds loomed, bruisy plum blue in the distance.
Look at the rainbow, you said.
And there was a rainbow more beautiful than I'd seen in years.
We were blown away by its beauty. A sight for sore eyes.
Eyes blinded by the moon.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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