Three hours sweating on this Remington. The Papa Dobles are flowing faster than my words. Fortunately, I'm at home at Floridita, even the loud salsa and the humid heat no longer affect me.
This fisherman's tale leads nowhere for now. A headlong rush? A quest? An addiction? Like love in the end, passion, intoxication, in any case, obsession!
Like Her, at the end of the bar, a paradox of strength and weakness. Her entrance was preceded by a breath of patchouli and cold spices like cardamom. First contact between my skin infused with vetiver and rum with her goddess-like trail. But what a surprise when she pushes a wooden stool with her foot and says to me, "The famous Hemingway, I suppose?"
Just enough time to light her Monte Cristo and mine, and in the blink of an eye, I wonder if she's just a product of my imagination, this breath of saffron, elegance, myrrh, and freedom, does it exist outside of my consciousness... ghosts, dreams, and illusions regularly lull my "Floridita's night."
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