F. Scott Fitzgerald: Juan-les-Pins, France. November, 1926

By Debra Conner

Hemingway’s a fake, Zelda claims,
a pansy with hair on his chest,
a professional he man.
Hadley’s his minion, she says,
his substitute mother, his trust fund wife.
Zelda fumes when I pick up their tab.

Tonight, after Zelda stormed out
of the restaurant, and Hadley left
with the baby, Hemingway
sidled over to say my wife’s bad news.
She’ll ruin me, he warned, with her antics,
her need for attention.
She’s the reason I struggle to write.

Hemingway’s the golden boy now, gilded
with success from The Sun Also Rises
and I’m just a name on a guest list.
He’s flaunting a bruised chin
and a bandaged hand from the boxing ring.
The tape’s as white as his face
the day I drove us to the cliff ’s edge
and braked with one front tire dangling.

Now, he pats my arm like he’s my best pal.
He snaps a match and lights my shaking cigarette.
On my plate, my half–eaten steak grows cold.