Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

my index finger, measuring the invisible space between them like the bleeding edge of an offset print run. “And what do I have to do for eight hundred dollars a month, Arthur?”

“You just have to stop looking, Martha,” Arthur said, his voice dropping an octave. “You let the old files stay where they are.”

“The files in the corporate archives,” I said.continue reading …