everyone came out

The eclipse brought the whole street outside, which never happens, people you had lived beside for four years and never once spoken to, all of you on the pavement and the balconies in the strange tea coloured light. The man from the third floor had the proper glasses and passed them down without being asked, ten seconds each, like communion. The birds went quiet. It got cold, and nobody mentioned that it got cold.

You don't really remember the sun. You remember handing the glasses on to your neighbour and neither of you saying anything, and the streetlights coming on at eight in the evening all down the road, confused.