She is Rosaline, and Romeo loves her.
Alas, I love her as well, and mayhap more, but Romeo did spy her first. ’Twould be dishonorable to pursue her now. ’Twould be also pointless, for ’tis Mercutio she desires.
Unjust, that, and stupid, for he is unworthy. But the lady hath chosen—poorly, aye, but chosen nevertheless.
Fortunate, lucky, unworthy bastard!
The Capulets’ house is empty now, but for those who dwell there. Romeo and I left some time ago, but I have since doubled back and loiter near the entrance to the grounds in the hope of seeing Rosaline when she makes her exit. Here in the street, the revelers disperse in high spirits, the jubilance of the night’s festivities still clinging to them as they stagger homeward.
Now, in the periphery of mine eye, methinks I see the form of Romeo, running at full clip, toward the Capulets’ orchard. So he hath returned as well, has he? No doubt he too hopes to spy fair Rosaline, who loves Mercutio.
Hah. We are both, Romeo and I, quite pathetic.
Now someone calls, “Benvolio? Is that you?”
I turn in the direction of the gravel-voice and find Mercutio, seated in the dirt, sprawled comfortably against the outside of the orchard wall.
“Come sit with me, friend,” he slurs, “and share a drink. A flagon of wine stolen from the enemy’s table.”
With a heavy sigh, I join him and accept the bottle, which is nearly spent.
“Careful,” he warns. “’Tis mostly spit and backwash.”
I toss the flagon; it shatters against a stone.
“Was that Romeo?” I ask. “I thought I saw him come this way.”
Mercutio shoots me a sly look. “Mayhap he is avoiding thee, having seen you, his good friend and beloved cousin, dallying with his girl.”
“’Twas no dalliance, I assure thee,” I grind out through my teeth.
“But not for want of trying, eh?” Mercutio laughs.
“We’d best both give up,” I inform him coldly, “Romeo and I. ’Tis you she wants, though I have duly warned her of the peril inherent there. Still, she is determined to have thee at any cost.”
“More’s the pity,” he grumbles. “She is far too good for me.”
“Aye, she is.”
“Too good for you too, Benvolio.” He laughs again. “’Tis no secret that you are as shameless a womanizer as I. You, with your doe eyes and ready smile, would surely break her heart as thoroughly as I would.”
“Do not count on it,” I mumble. “’Tis a moot point, anyhow, for Romeo saw her first, and even if she wanted me, I could not betray him in that manner. We are friends, Rosaline and I.”
Mercutio lets out a snort. I smile in spite of myself.
“You must be truly drunk, my friend, for you giggle like a girl.”
Mercutio totters to his feet. “I am truly drunk but not nearly drunk enough. And so let us find that Romeo and go forth to increase my measly inebriation.” He leans heavily upon my shoulder. “Call for him, wilt thou?”
“Romeo!” I holler. “My cousin Romeo! Romeo!”
We listen for his response and receive none but the sonorous echo of mine own shout.
Mercutio sighs. “He is wise and, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.”
I shake my head. “He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio.”
“Nay, I must conjure him.” Again, he snorts. “I conjure
thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes, by her high forehead, and her scarlet lip, by her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh …”
I do not like the path his wit has taken.
“If he hear thee,” I snarl, “thou wilt anger him.”
Mercutio looks askance at me, for he knows that it is I who am angered by his bawdy talk of Rosaline. He releases me to stand wavering on his own.
I find that I no longer wish to find Romeo, for I fear I will see in his eyes a reflection of my own fragility. Suddenly, I am eager to get myself home, where I may pine in private. With a show of false humor, I clap Mercutio on the back. He stumbles.
“Come, he hath hid himself among these trees to be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and befits the dark.” As does my own.
Mercutio agrees, and we begin our journey homeward. As we traverse the cobbled streets, I glance behind me once. Methinks I hear the sound of delicate footfall in pursuit of us. And the swish of a heavy gown?
’Tis impossible. I am only wishful.