Um

Stepping nimbly from Hansom top I cast my, um, brr to the mire and bounded, nimbly, up rainslick steps: two—to—four—for—five—fie! Alone in the gazebo, by dainty Nouveau curls, sat sweetly Ben, victim of muddying, puddling Melbourne. It may have been a near thing: pausing mid-gallop, clocking the sky—Zounds! or similar quaint exclamation—then steering his mane to cover (swiftly, too, if his barely moistened outfit was any sign). Mummied in red ribbon, a dusting of ginger bristles about the jawline, he turned his head mildly, sweetly, his features almost softening as I approached. And down, lithely, I sat, my light grey suit damp, dark grey. Lovely day, old rock! A tiny smile, registering like a twitch. You’re wondering, of course, what I'm doing here. Heralding the apocalypse? Mm. He was more substantial than I remembered him, nearing a brawler's build. But though set in an age-inflated face, his sweet Jersey cow eyes had lost none of their puissance.

I fished a thermos from my drawers. Whisky? It’s 3pm. I didn't ask the time. Things that bad, huh? Pouring out a palmful:—A writer must have his poison. What’s your excuse, then? I threw back my hand. Ergh. You want to know why I'm here? Let’s say I do. Drumming rain; timpani thunder; dramatic middle-distance stare: The Renaissance! Well, it was nice seeing you again. Allow me my monologue, sweet Ben, for I have come to you fresh from the shores of Hell itself. So that I might stand before you today I have braved trials too harrowing to recount, seen things no soul should witness. I could tell of moving accidents by flood and field. Of deserts idle, rough quarries, hills whose heads touch the sky. Heaven, but go on. Of vast silver sacks and yellow boxes. Of treason committed against my own self. You’re losing me. The point is: it’s been rough. And I need my 2IC. I need my Ben.

He surveyed the sheets of weather with a brooding air. I’m afraid your Ben is kind of busy right now. Too busy for revolution? He turned. What would we be revolting against, exactly? Exactly everything: jobs, parents, despotism, losing touch with our friends. It’d be us against the world. Hu-h! The world is not opposing us. The world is indifferent to us. The world does not give us a second thought. The Renaissance is dead, H—, if ever it lived. Dress up the corpse as you will; it won’t wake. That emptiness you’re feeling? A thousand revolutions couldn’t cure it. He draped an arm over the nearer of my shoulders and exhaled sympathetically. I hear exercise helps. The downpour eased into drizzle. A drop of golden sun (me). Then it was clear. Standing, Ben smoothed a crease on his jumbo jodhpurs. I wasn’t too icy, was I? You were, yes. The best I’d ever known. But I take it you will not be again.