Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

her future.”

“My future was decided in 1992, Arthur,” I said, tapping my thumb against my index finger to feel the imaginary weight of thirty-pound bond paper. “You just forgot to tell me.”

He looked down at his empty butter plate, his jaw tight.

A waiter in a black vest set a basket of warm rolls between us, the scent of yeast rising for a brief moment continue reading …