Hemingway sat at the bar in a steamy Caribbean backwater, the atmosphere thick with the scent of smoke and whiskey. He wasn't even thinking of getting laid, just sitting there, brooding ruggedly with a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and three days growth on his chin. The words came quickly, writing themselves. The story formed, one short and clean sentence after another, a half empty bottle and a single glass close at hand.
The women in the room want him. Their dark skin and darker hair call out to him; the allure of flesh is strong. Ignoring them, he pours himself a drink and downs it, wasting no effort. The words continue. The men hang back against the walls and huddle at small tables in the darkened corners, murmuring to themselves and taking quick glances, afraid to stare too long. He's too real, too human for these shadows. He pours himself another drink and finishes a page. The story, powerful and direct, mirrors his own presence.
She walks into the bar, a strange woman in a stranger land. Her skin is dark like the others, but her eyes are emerald and piercing. If he notices her, he makes no sign, his only motion to finish his latest drink and continue his feverish writing. The story is all that matters. She slowly approaches the bar, intent on only one person and wanting only one thing. All of the men and several of the woman look at her, wishing those eyes would find their focus on them but they never waver. She reaches one slender hand towards his neck, her fingers trembling slightly with desire.
Before her fingers touch him, his hand, rough and calloused reaches up and grasps her wrist, firm but gentle. Closing his notebook, he turns to her.
"Sorry. I've got a story to tell," he says, getting up from the bar. Dropping a few bills, he turns to the door. "Got to be a place a man can write in peace," he mutters, walking into the night.