Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

reach into her pocket for her keys.

She did not have the key to the lobby anymore.

She stood there for a moment, her fingers hovering over the brass intercom buttons, before she looked up again.

“Should I press the buzzer?” Clara asked.

“I will go down,” I said.

The elevator was slow, the cable humming in the shaft with a steady, low vibration that I could continue reading …