Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

scraping porcelain filled the room.

At eight, the salad plates were cleared, and Gerald stood up to walk toward our table, his short, clipped steps bringing him directly behind my chair.

“Martha,” he said, his voice dry and flat. “This is a private celebration for the agency.”

“I am still a registered shareholder, Gerald,” I said, not turning around to continue reading …