upper deck of a city bus, large curved window to the right, palm fronds strobing past then a blank motorway retaining wall then the first glimpse of whitewash and wrought-iron balconies assembling themselves through condensation-edged glass — she has turned her face from the window and is looking at nothing — the city just appeared behind her and she has not yet registered it
The orange blossom hit before the exit doors had fully opened. Not sweet — something thicker than that. Resinous. Like the city had been burning flowers slowly and didn't stop for arrivals.
I took the bus from Santa Justa because the taxi queue was a decision I didn't want to make. Sat on the upper level. Watched the city assemble itself through the window — palm trees, then a motorway wall, then suddenly whitewash and wrought iron and the whole thing just beginning.
The shirt was still creased from the bag and I didn't fix it. Sevilla didn't seem to care.
S's shadow — no body, just the shadow — falling across whitewashed wall and wrought-iron window grille at street level
I left my bag at the pensión on Calle Mesón del Moro and went out before I could think about unpacking. The afternoon light was flat, overcast, and the effect was strange — everything equally lit, nothing casting shadow, the streets looking slightly more real than they should.
narrow alley adjacent to a baroque church facade, a heavy timber door set into a stone surround standing slightly ajar, beyond it a second aperture opening onto candlelight and uneven terracotta tile — doorway within doorway, the alley itself barely wide enough for one person — she has stopped with one hand flat against the open door, weight shifted forward but not yet through — reading the darkness inside before committing to it
I found the church by accident. A door off an alley that might be Mateos Gago, might be adjacent to it — I did not stop to read the plaque. The door was not locked. Inside, a single bulb was burning near the altar and no one else was there. The sacristan had gone. The chairs were stacked.
Single bare bulb burning near a baroque altar, stacked wooden chairs along the nave wall, worn terracotta-and-cream tile floor
I put the blazer on before I went inside. Something about the light in there required a bit more weight.
interior of a small church — a stone bench running the length of the left wall, the floor a worn pattern of terracotta and cream tile, the center aisle rubbed almost smooth, stacked chairs visible in the near background, a single bulb burning at the altar far right of frame — she is not sitting anymore — she has just stood, and is standing still for a beat before moving, the decision to leave not yet converted into movement
I sat on a stone bench along the left wall. The floor was uneven tile, terracotta and cream, worn down the center aisle to something almost smooth. I sat until the flight felt like a thing that had happened to someone else, which took about twenty minutes.
Unlocked arched church door standing open onto the alley — the interior dark beyond the threshold, exterior whitewash bright against it
Outside, when I left, a cat was sitting in the exact warm square of air where the sun had been before the clouds came back.
What she wore
day1-scene1
The shirt was still creased from the bag and I didn't fix it. Sevilla didn't seem to care.
day1-scene2
I put the blazer on before I went inside. Something about the light in there required a bit more weight.
day1-scene3
I didn't dress up exactly. I just turned the palette around — black on top this time, which felt like enough.