Six Hand Drawn Sketches from the Summer of Nineteen Ninety Two

at seven, the yellow vinyl booths reflecting the fluorescent lights from the kitchen. Arthur sat across from me, a half-eaten plate of saltine crackers between us. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes staying fixed on the blue porcelain coffee cup in front of him.

“You need to stop this, Martha,” Arthur said, his gravelly voice dropping even continue reading …