They finished the field, and he went home. He found himself alone and made something of the time.
He sat on the porch as sun fell low smoking small cigar—Arturo Fuente, Hemingway Short Story; life was a never-end of short stories lived, written, and smoked.
He smoked the one and thought another not yet written onto page—maybe when flame of the first was gone and embers of the second remained, ready to catch flame if given life in breath.
Crickets played sharp sound songs clear and near as drone of more in distance blended into him. Fireflies lit in slow-blink flash rising from lawn and bushed hides.
He smoked, took notice, and saved for story’s use—writing in mind before cigar exhausted to its end.
He took another draw, listening to depths of crickets’ sounds.
He imagined and dreamed in summer-yellow, color of season-life, of painted toes and sun-tanned skin, lines’ drawing over skin.
He took another draw, holding in, then breathing smoke away. Further details—imagined and seen—that colored dream long after evening hues had played and faded back away.
Cigar nearly gone, mind breathed life into the story: yellow-hue, painted toes, crisp lines on sun-tanned skin.