Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

ran clear.

“I have some English breakfast tea in my bag,” she said.

“No,” I said, looking at the empty space on the counter where my vintage drafting table used to sit.

“Let us wait until the tea kettle is unpacked,” I said.

“It is in the bottom of the blue crate,” Clara said, pointing with her chin toward the hallway.

I walked out to continue reading …