I think on nothing but the girl. All the rest of this day, into the twilight, my mind is full of her.
As I ready myself for the feast in the enemy’s hall, I imagine her delicate hand alighting within mine as we dance—if there be time to take to my legs afore I am caught by some Capulet who wishes to break them. Perhaps I will persuade the girl to leave the feast with me in a stealthy fashion so that I may have her company all to myself I will find us a place beneath the swollen moon where I may gather her close and breathe her in and touch her hair and ask to kiss her, and if by some miracle she whispers, “Aye, Benvolio, kiss me, please,” I will do so as softly as ‘tis possible for a man to kiss. My first task, though, will be to learn the great secret that is her name.
My fellows arrive, calling for me without. I don my mask, a clever, gilded affair of thin plaster that scowls on my behalf with thin, crimson-painted lips.
On my path to the door, I pass my father sitting alone beside the unlit hearth, and I see in his eyes that he will pass this eve, as he hath passed many others, with missing my mother. I touch his slumped shoulder, startling him. When he sees me in the garish mask, he almost smiles.
“Art thou well, my lord?”
“Ah, I am fine,” he lies. “Please do not worry after me, my son. Go on to your celebration. ’Tis a masquerade, I take it?”
I nod; the mask bumps my chin.
A glint of humor softens my father’s eyes. “Enjoy thyself, but take good care. And shouldst thou expect to be returning home at an exceedingly late hour—”
“Aye, Father,” I assure him. “I will send a messenger round to let thee know.”
“To whose dwelling place dost thou go?”
I evade the question, not wishing to reveal my destination, as I am certain my lord would forbid me to go. Instead, I squeeze his shoulder.
“I will be most cautious, and polite,” I promise.
“What a fine man you’ve grown into, Benvolio. Your lady mother would be proud.”
I do not reply, fearing my voice would catch. “God ye good night, Father.”
“Fare thee well.”
I hurry to exit, joining my fellow maskers in the street. Their torch flames burn like warnings in the unsteady hands of five or six scalawags invited by Mercutio. They are already deep into their cups and reeking of ale. I press my lonesome father from my thoughts and greet Romeo with a solid punch to his arm.
“To Capulet’s,” he declares behind his bejeweled disguise.
“Aye, to Capulet’s! And may God have mercy on our roguish souls!”
The night is a swirl of stars and darkness and warm breeze, and my memory of the nameless girl. What mask will she wear, I wonder? Mayhap a nymph’s. Or a goddess’s? Some celestial caricature, sewn with flowing silk for hair like moonbeams?
As our procession makes its way to Capulet’s home, glum Romeo, as expected, waxes on about the burden of his unanswered affection for Rosaline.
Mercutio, in fine, angry spirits, teases our friend, and does so with bold, randy humor—some windy speech about the fairy’s midwife, the mythical Queen Mab. He wreaks his poetry upon us, casting a wordy spell as he chants on and on so that even the night listens. “Dreams, and chariots. Cricket’s bones. Elflocks, prayers, and ready maids … .”
I will give him this, the boy can talk!
Turning my attention away from Mercutio’s theatric ranting, I find myself wanting harder than ever to cross
Capulet’s threshold. I can see the house in the distance, glowing in the deep night. The music drifts from its windows, beckoning me, inviting me to hurry.
I whirl on Mercutio. “This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves,” I shout, more harshly than I mean to. “Supper is done, and we shall come too late!”
Mercutio growls at me, then chuckles and rolls his eyes. He snaps me a bow of acquiescence, then strides off in the direction of the feast.
But Romeo stays me, with a heavy hand upon my forearm. His voice goes soft. “Some consequence yet hanging in the stars shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night’s revels … .”
I do as Mercutio did. I roll my eyes and laugh aloud, tugging good Romeo toward the party, ignoring his next words. Methinks I hear him speak of untimely death, but I will not abide such dark prophecy. Not this night, not when I am so close to finding love.
“Strike, drum,” I cry in a voice of hope, marching on after Mercutio.
Sighing heavily, Romeo falls into step beside me.