Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

back to his rag.

I sat there for twenty minutes, holding the warm cup between my palms.

The three men in the booths paid their bill and left, the bell above the door jingling twice.

The afternoon sun was coming through the plate glass window, hitting the salt shakers and turning the grease on the grill to a bright, golden yellow.

I looked at the siren’s continue reading …