Drinks With Hemingway~A Fantasy Meeting

Taking his waterproof, the waiter
hung it next to the others. Before
he could be escorted to an empty
booth by the window, I pushed back
a chair in invitation suppressing
my surprise when he accepted. 
Ignoring my café au lait,
he ordered two rum St. James.
“To Paris in the spring.”
Just as the golden liquid parted
my lips, his glass slammed the table
scattering the pencil shavings from
my earlier scribbling. Tapping my
notebook, “How’s it going?”
“All I want is to write one
true sentence.” Removing a
battered brown notebook from
his pocket, he thumbed forward
and read aloud. “When the cold
rains kept on and killed the spring,
it was as though a young person
had died for no reason.”
I sat warmed by the rum and
the thickness of his voice. He
belongs to this café and to Paris
as I belong to my pencil and paper.
A second drink disappeared down
his throat. “You will write it.”
Grabbing him by the lapels, I pressed
my face into his neck and breathed
in the cedar of his suit coat. My skin
made damp by his rain drenched hair.
I whispered the truest thing I know,
“Shotguns are not for putting in your mouth.”