Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

his wire-rimmed glasses with his thumb and forefinger. He cleared his throat twice, a low, gravelly sound that had always preceded his worst news.

“You should not be here, Martha,” he said, his eyes darting to the large projector screen hanging above the empty stage.

“I bought a ticket,” I said, sliding the heavy envelope onto the white tablecloth next continue reading …