Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

“The dishwasher is broken.”

“The paper is fine,” I said.

He poured the dark liquid from a glass pot, the steam rising between us.

“That will be three dollars and forty cents,” he said.

I laid the coins on the counter, the silver dime rolling twice before it stopped against the sugar shaker.

He took the money and nodded, returning to his machine.

I picked continue reading …