Seventy

Ernest Hemingway was in the bar that rummy day. When I said “hey” he gave me a dirty look. He always seemed like a bona fide asshole, which made it so rough for me to look up to him. He was wounded in two World Wars; I hadn’t even seen one. His decades were great, didn’t know there were greater to come. He made sentences about Europe – I’m making brains about space.