In summer, the setting sun hangs over the horizon for longer than in other seasons. People are gathered at the end of the pier to watch, they’re crowded two or three deep. The orange sun eventually sinks behind an Olympic.
A couple next to me are holding each other; and right at the moment that the last little fingernail clipping of sun disappears, the man let’s go of the woman and says, “That was it.” They turn back to the city and walk away from the sunset. Within a minute, half of the rest of the sunset’s audience have walked out too.