Percussion. Percussion and piano seeped into my mind. Burt Baccarat-esq. I began humming along to “Say a Little Prayer”. Staring at the black type on the white paper, the characters danced and marched. I felt myself being pulled almost cartoon-ishly into the story. I closed my eyes and folded my hands prayer-like. I dove right in.
When I opened my eyes—there he was. My dream weaver, Ashley. And he was holding a Winnie the Pooh beach towel. I stepped out of the aquamarine surf and he enveloped me into the towel.
Ashley gently dried my face and said, “Hello love. What took you so long?”
“Oh, I was reading a good book.”
“Funny you should mention good books. I’ve got someone I think you’d like to watch.”
Ashley briskly dried me off. My nipples responded to the extra stimulation as he lingered over my itsy bitsy teeny weenie yellow polka dot bikini top. We took a circuitous path from the beach to the bungalow and peeked in the side window.
I watched a man sitting at a typewriter, rubbing his eyes. It wasn’t Mike. Young Momma Chloe with her Rita Hayworth styled hair, brought him a cup of coffee. With the flip of his hand, he cast her away and stormed out of the room. Momma tried a sip of the coffee and leaned down, looking at the typed page. I could read it too. “THE OLD
I said to Ashley, “Oh my God. That was…that was Ernest Hemingway! Momma knew Ernest Hemingway!” I latched onto Ashley’s warm arm and said, “Is he...could he have been...?”
“Is he could he what?”
“No, it’s silly.”
“Silly putty. Loved the stuff. Used to roll it onto the Sunday funnies and get the color ink transferred to notebook paper.”
“He couldn’t be my father, right? What year is it? When did he commit suicide?” Suicide. Nope. Never mind. I certainly don’t have those genes.
Ashley flipped me over his shoulder, fireman style. He carried me down to the beach. He eased me on top of the Pooh towel and sidled up. His beautiful brown eyes sparkled with love. I ran a finger across his full lips. The Donna song crept in with the tide. Shoot.