Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

was quiet at one in the afternoon. Outside, the gas station sign showed three dollars and forty cents for a gallon of regular fuel. Inside, the air smelled of grease and griddle scrapings, and the overhead fluorescent tubes hummed.

Arthur was sitting in the corner booth, his hands wrapped around a red ceramic mug that I knew cost eight dollars because continue reading …