The most important day of a century

What is a hundred years to an immortal being? A flash. A blink of an eye. A fleeting moment. A flutter of a butterfly’s wing. Hob felt that even though he was granted an endless life, he was still too human not to pay any attention to the pace of time. Sometimes he thought that his state of being could be better described as “denied death” than “granted everlasting life”, because sometimes he would feel exactly as much. Oh, but he knew for certain. He had tried a couple of times back in his first two or three hundred years. Death was not an option for him, not anymore. He was truly immortal now, yet he perceived the world around him as a human would. He wondered if it took getting used to. If in, say, another five hundred years, he would be able to look back at his past and feel that it was mere nonsense, a grain in the sands of time, just another half-millennia. And within it just another five meetings with Dream. Hob Gadling looked into the mirror and with great satisfaction noted that a man returning his gaze was a much better and visibly more handsome version of himself at their previous meeting. Today. Today was the day. He will say it to Dream today. They are friends, after all, they should be able to meet more often. To exchange experiences, to share news, to simply revel in each other’s company. Why not? Reveling felt the right thing to do in the 19th century, even though the streets of London were not the most cheerful environment nowadays with Jack the Ripper terrorizing their female inhabitants. The clock struck midday, and Hob almost screeched. Time was so uniquely slow today, dragging, crawling like a snail. He was fully dressed and ready to rush out of the house any minute. However, it was only midday and their meeting was not due till late afternoon. He sat down. Fingers started rattling the meaningless melody in a wain attempt to send his mind wandering. What should he do as a distraction? Eating? By now he had had both his breakfast and a light lunch, no way could he stuff anything else into his stomach. Reading? Brought him no relief. Twenty pages in and he couldn’t even say what he had just read about. Drinking, perhaps. This thought went as quickly as it came – he had once showed up drunk to his meeting and, to tell the whole truth, he had still been ashamed of it. Sometimes he wondered if Dream still remembered this disgrace. Hopefully, not. He stood up and started pacing. Fortunately, by this time in Hob’s life his house was big enough to provide a valid distance and distraction when paced around properly. The clock struck again, making the man pause in his steps and hearken. One, two. Just two. Well, two o’clock was already a good sign… If he left the house at once and stick to a moderately slow gait, then, perhaps, it would take him a whole hour or so to get to the inn. A whole hour… Hob fell onto the sofa again, crushing the perfectly pressed cloth of his suit under his weight. Why, oh why, would the time crawl like this on the most important day of a century?! He wanted to moan in his pillow, He wanted to swear. He wanted to see Dream now and not to have to wait for another three hours. When next Hob opened his eyes, it felt like an eternity, but according to the clock only forty minutes had passed. He felt well rested. He felt invigorated. He had seen a full kaleidoscope of lovely dreams – some proper daydreaming. And though he couldn’t really remember any detail, the dreams left Hob in a properly happy state of mind. So it was close to four o’clock now. And if he leaves the house now, and attempts a moderate pace, then he might just have a chat with the innkeeper on this and that, weather talk, as usual. And then… On leaving the house Hob gave his reflection the most disarming smile he could squeeze and then hurried out into the cloudy afternoon and muddy streets of 19th century London. He was going to meet his friend. What could possibly go wrong?