The Sun God's Day Off

The first sign was that it rained all day in the middle of July, everywhere on earth at once. The second sign was the man who came into Delia's café at nine in the morning, sat down at the window and ordered every pastry in the display case.

He was very tall and very handsome, with golden skin and hair that seemed to glow even in the grey light. He was wearing sandals and a borrowed raincoat several sizes too small. Every time he laughed, the lights flickered.

'Day off,' he explained, through a mouthful of almond croissant. 'First in a thousand years. Someone else is covering. Badly, as you can see.'

Delia had run a seaside café for fifteen years and had served stranger customers. She brought him more coffee and asked what he did.

'I drive the sun across the sky,' he said. 'Every day. It's very boring.'

He was, it turned out, a terrible flirt. He told her that her eyes were like the dawn over the Aegean, and then looked crestfallen when she pointed out that it was a very old line. He tried again. It was worse. She laughed so hard she had to put down the coffee pot.

By the afternoon she had shut the café. By evening they were walking along the wet beach, his borrowed raincoat over both of them, and his flirting had improved considerably.

She took him home. Her flat was cold and damp, so he warmed it up, which was useful. He kept her very warm too.

At dawn he kissed her, apologised, and went to work. The sun rose over the sea brighter than anyone could remember, and lingered a little longer than usual over one small seaside town.