Tara Bergin

Blushing in a manner out of keeping with my age (my graying hair, my falling face) I entered Greyfriar’s Inn. I was blushing, and out of keeping with my age. In I went, making my foolish entrance, folding down my umbrella self-consciously — aware of the locals at the bar with their gin and their small talk — and walked right up to the barmaid, somewhat brazenly, I thought. One glass of beer, I said to her, and she, smiling kindly, pulled it. I stood and waited. I waited for them all to stop their fond, drunken reminiscences, for them to stop putting forth their opinions, and to turn to me and say — in an accusatory way — What are you doing here? On a Wednesday night? Unaccompanied? With an accent we can’t quite identify? I waited ready: Why am I here? I would say. I am here as an imposter, an outsider, a reluctant admirer of your lovely daughter Jane — I am here for my Lecture in the Picturesque, to learn of sidescreens and perspectives, to learn of window tax and syntax — and “ha-has” — for harmless gambling in the parlor, wearing mittens and handworked collars and a pretty amber cross — I am here to steal a pistol and a spoon found underground, to rob the peacock feathers streaming from the silly boy’s crown — I am here, I would say, for sensation— For sensation? they would say, and I would say: Yes!Painful sensation of restraint or alarm! Oh ye patrons of Greyfriar’s Inn, I would exclaim, I am here to meet your high-waisted Jane, to embrace her as my comrade; as my brother-in-arms! I stood and waited. But the good patrons of Greyfriar’s Inn, they never said a thing; just continued talking amongst themselves, quietly reminiscing. I paid the barmaid and turned my head. I looked out at the wet; I looked out at the southwest rain, and the redbrick houses. I watched the famous silhouette, gently swinging back and forth above the gate. I raised the glass to her impassive, sideways face. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.