Breakfast at Hemingway’s
You know how it is Sunday morning when everyone else is asleep until the newspaper slams against the front door sounding like the crack of a rifle? I put the Thompson sub-machine gun back into its well-oiled case, lined with the fleece of a Basque sheep. “Those eggs are well and truly scrambled now”, I thought. As I ate them, the earth moved. Yes, the eggs are well and truly scrambled; they are the eggs of a man. Here, have some.
Dispatches From Key West 