Fitzgerald gives the reader a snapshot of one of his afternoons and while a fictional account of same, the story reads as a sort of resentment of his life as a writer, and the resulting frustration and sadness that comes from not knowing what to write and where to find the inspiration.
From within? From the streets where he watches women on street corners in their dresses and bright colored hats? From the storefronts and barber shops and park benches? The writer in this story is a drifter of a man at the end of his career struggling to find a tale worth telling. Fitzgerald got this one right from start to finish.
Images I'll never forget.