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! Clouds!—then steering his mane to cover (swiftly, 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? He was more substantial than I remembered him, nearly a brawler's build. But though set in an age-inflated face, his sweet Jersey cow eyes, awash in a tender melancholy, 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. Want to know why I'm here? Let’s say I do. Drumming rain; timpani thunder; baby geese by the stables. Rising, dramatic middle-distant stare: the Renaissance! Well, it was nice seeing you again. I'm being serious. Yes, I fear you are. Allow me my monologue, sweet Ben, for I have come to you fresh from Hell itself. So that I might stand before you today I have braved most disastrous, uh— Chances. Right. And beaches, too. His fingers rippled, signalling impatience. I have climbed mesas and mountains, crawled on my hands through jungle, committed treason against my own self. What. (You might catch up if you follow the references I wreck.) The point is, comrade, 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 rather busy right now. Too busy for revolution? What would we be revolting against, exactly? Exactly everything: jobs, parents, taxes, losing touch with friends. It’d be us against the world. He shifted. The world is not opposing us. The world is indifferent to us. It does not give us a second thought. The Renaissance? It’s dead. Has been for over a decade now. Sure, you could gussy up its corpse, maybe fool yourself a spell, but it won’t change anything. The hole will still be a hole. 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.