Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

on Thursday,” I said.

“Martha,” she said, setting the cup back down on the tray. “You do not have a ticket to that dinner, and you do not have a house to go back to when the dinner is over.”

“I have the sketches,” I said.

I stood up and went to the small window that looked out over the gravel parking lot, where a puddle was collecting the gray runoff continue reading …