Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

I had seen the price on the diner’s souvenir shelf. His wire-rimmed glasses had slipped down his nose, and his gravelly voice was barely a whisper when he cleared his throat.

“You did not have to come,” Arthur said, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid in his mug.

I sat down across from him. Between us, on the laminate table, sat the blue continue reading …