Wearing a tattered shooting jacket, a Hemingway moustache sunk in his cunning features, his rugged climbing boots eroded, he grips my hand in greeting, smiling.
The canvas chair I perch on draped in soft white fur lush against my back would fold like a camping stool.
He sits in a secretary chair disguised by tan deer hides, questioning my every word:
And did you hear voices?
he asks with a numb face. I can only fidget.
No, I rarely hear voices, I whisper without eye contact.
Leaning forward, he sighs, Ah! with a satisfied smirk.
He harmonizes my words booming approval. We speak in perfect fifths, he taking the lower note, I the higher.
I certainly like that image of a Hemingway mustache sunk in his cunning features. As a matter of fact, I really enjoy all of your description and dialogue here...Jerry
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