Hemingway Loves Shoes

There was evening in Cuba, the young soldier drinks on the porch. absinthe
A mixture of sugar is his destruction. It is sweet like dark fuggy like
America's periodista and her shoes. He thinks magenta high-heeled shoes
Shining like blood on a dirty dance floor, and bullfighters
Remember rounded toe like wine pool in walnut table in Paris
Cafe and an arch type as good and he had never seen the same. He thinks
Click on the check. His fever out her shoes.
"Ernesto," he said.
His companion rounds. "Si?" The old man asked. His skin leathery, like soft
Brown last season even.
"She and her shoes... they would destroy me."
"They always do," ernesto horizons.
The young man looked at the stars in the sky. They like diamonds shine in Beverly
Feldman cubana the sensuous wear shoes from smoking whisky.
He thinks of other stars he saw from the trenches, and the glints of light
on his bayonet, sharp as the points of Jimmy Choos, but then always he comes
back to her americana legs ending in those red, red shoes of death and he
knows he is already gone, a victim. He loves her. He loves death.
“You are a dead man,” says Ernesto.
“Only by the stiletto of her heels.” He rises, drains his drink. I have
known better women, he thinks, but none with heels of Prada. He walks into
the night and his doom.