The two of them had met long ago, or not so long ago; to any casual observer, it was difficult to tell. They were known only for their hatred of each other, and no one seemed to know the source of it, let alone how recent it was. Before, over the years, they had thrived on one another's company—scholars in Padua, travelers in Vienna, traders in Barcelona, forever side by side. They quarreled only once, and parted, each one expecting the other to come around. Instead, they defiantly married, and never forgave each other for it. And now one had a child of seventeen, the other of thirteen.
The first had a son, forever running hither and yon, preceding trouble and following women, always in the company of friends with tongues sharper than their rapiers. His father never spoke of his own youth, scarcely permitting himself to remember it at all.
The second would see his daughter, with the oildrop eyes and glossy hair, and yell until her replies were thick with sobs. The child was refusing marriage as her father, unbeknownst to her, once had himself. Such things had changed since then.
Years ago, they had visited Verona together and found it beautiful. They never expected to return to it only to be reunited in spite of themselves. Now they woke every morning, faced with wives and children and each other, day after day. Verona lay before them and there was nothing fair about it.