I took breakfast
with Shakespeare the day after the spring carnival. I called him Will and he
didn’t seem to mind much. He sprinkled a bit of sugar on his sausage and
indicated in an as a matter of fact tone that the sugar brought out the meats
natural flavor as long as you didn’t use too much. I asked if a good meal
helped him write and he laughed.
“Writing dear
boy, is bolstered or murdered by appetite alone. Starvation is the key to penning gold,
love or adoration, but not sex.”
“What aids in the
writing of sex,” I asked, not looking directly at him a blush on my cheeks.
He pushed his
plate to the center of the table, licked the sausage fat and sticky sugar from
his fingers and sighed as he leaned back in his chair.
“A breast in
your mouth and two fingers as close to heaven as you dare….so keep your
notebook ready my lad, it’s fleeting and can turn to tragedy in the time it
takes the heart to consider beating.”
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