Brogues

Cicero’s gone. And we … we’re not up to the job. Or any job. Or anything. This is just the playing out … of our mediocrity. It begins and ends with our mediocrity. With the fact that we aren’t Cicero …

But Cicero chose us, didn’t she? She practically combed the country for us.

True.

She sought us out.

We probably disappointed her.

I don’t think we did. She used to listen to us lecture ourside the lecture hall. She’d listen in the foyer.

She liked our pathos. Our perspective … The English working class perspective. Real people perspective, she said.

All I remember is Cicero calling us libtards.

That was to train us. To get us used to adversity.

She criticised my shoes. She said they weren’t smart enough.

That was part of the training. She thought you wouldn’t take yourself seriously without proper shoes. Look, you’re wearing them now. Fucking brogues.

 

And she had a special love for you, Shiva. The way she always kept you back for further instruction. You were, like, her chosen successor. Selected for special attention. As the chosen one. As the future leader. To whom everything was going to be entrusted.