Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

when I walked through the door at one o’clock.

Arthur was sitting by the window, his wire-rimmed glasses resting on the Formica table beside a half-eaten plate of toast.

“You look pale, Martha,” he said, clearing his throat before he spoke.

“I met Helen this morning,” I said, sliding into the vinyl booth opposite him.

He reached for his glasses and adjusted continue reading …