So this beach cafe is empty on this Winter weekday. The ladies who lunch will return in Summer, like squawking seagulls with their pestilential fashion model children. Today it is my own.
I can fantasize that I am one of those guys, you know, those down and out writers who sat at beach cafes in Europe leaving change on the saucers until the cheques started coming in and they could return to Paris or New York. Cafe au lait and American cigarettes stirring the imagination of the next story, the pert breasted waitress kindling painful desire for the girl I left behind.
Like them I have seen a couple of fortunes pass like steam ships, watched them slowly disappear over the horizon, driven away by forces stronger than myself. Like them I'd rather be poor than middle class, preferably stinking rich. Like them I have allowed love to pass through my hands like the sand before me, I have known loss and sought the words to express it.
It is all fantasy. I have the setting, the bit players, the past, the work lies before me.