JR Shimonada Station A winter sunset that made me stop peeling my mandarin

On a mid-December evening, I sat down on a bench at Shimonada Station. The sea stretched out right in front of me, and just sitting there made me feel as if I'd traveled a long way. I rubbed my hands together to warm them in the winter air, then took out the mandarin I'd brought. I'd been looking forward to eating it as I watched the sunset, even before I set off.

Just as I pressed my fingers into the peel, I noticed the sun sinking toward the sea. The round sun I'd seen moments ago was edging closer to the horizon. Wait, was it already going down? I hurried to peel the mandarin, but the strip came away much longer than I'd expected, swaying in front of my knees.

The sun had grown smaller again while I was looking at that strip of peel. I could eat later. Holding the half-peeled mandarin and its peel in both hands, I turned toward the sea. Even the air that had felt cold a moment ago seemed to settle into this quiet moment.

I stopped peeling and watched until the last of the sun disappeared into the sea. I didn't want to miss any of it; I may have barely blinked. After it had set, I let out a breath and noticed my shoulders had tensed up a little. It would have set whether or not I watched, but somehow I wanted to see it off properly.

After watching the sea a little longer, I finished peeling the mandarin. When I put one segment in my mouth, it felt as if both my hands and my mind had finally started moving again. I'd meant to eat it while watching the sunset, but I'd watched right through to the end first. Still, I like savoring that segment while I think back on the view.

As I was leaving, I kept looking back toward where the sun had been. When I look back at today's photos, I think I'll remember the half-peeled mandarin as well as the sea. My friend will probably expect me to start with the food. But what I want to show her is the kind of sunset that made my hands stop mid-peel.