Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

bay was flat and grey, reflecting the pale sky like a sheet of old zinc.

Clara was sitting on the bench by the apartment entry, a small wicker basket on her lap.

“You were gone a long time,” she said.

“I had some coffee,” I said.

“Did you find a good place?” she asked.

“The one on the corner,” I said.

She stood up, holding the basket out continue reading …