Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

cold air.

He cleared his throat as I walked up the three concrete steps, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with his thumb.

“You should not be staying here, Martha,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding thin in the open breeze.

“I have a key,” I said, putting the metal key into the lock and turning it.

He followed me inside, his shoes continue reading …