Who: Abi and Ernest Where: The food court What: Coffee When: Tuesday afternoon Rating: TBD Open? No
Curiously, her stomach was turning over and over in nerves, even though she knew that she was meeting a man she'd already slept with for coffee. Except that he wasn't just any man, he was Ernest fucking Hemingway; possibly the best author writing in the 20th century and the subject of her undergraduate thesis. He was an icon in both the journalistic and fiction communities, having drawn lines in the sand and changing political discourse during the Spanish civil war and the Normandy landings. Suddenly she remembered all her drunken idiocy, pathetic diatribes in an attempt for depth and coming off as derivative. God, how she had been so stupid, so ridiculously young and idealistic. Why on earth would he want to have coffee with her?
Unless of course, coffee wasn't just coffee. Her memory might be hazy for a good half hour there but she knew they'd had fucking incredible sex. She wasn't surprised at his reputation in hindsight; the man was enigmatic and charming and had this irresistible tug about his personality that drew people in, including her. What if he wasn't exactly expecting just coffee? Sure, she probably wouldn't say no, but it wouldn't paint her as much of a dignified, respectable woman, would it?
Her hands were almost clammy when she finally found the food court, half a mind to turn around and bury herself in books for a month just to try and sound smarter when they did meet. Abi had to tell herself constantly that he was just any other man, maybe looking for a second go on the rollercoaster, hoping to jump the long wait. Oh fuck.
She'd gotten eaten out by Ernest Hemingway. That would not be a story she'd be telling her grandkids.