The Blues & Billie Armstrong 19
THAT EXQUISITE ACHE
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
The hatbox, these new letters, this true motherlode of secrets, somehow made the first envelope more real, the pink lipstick brighter, the scratch-scratch louder.
Entering my bedroom, I heard the creak and scrape of wood as Billie lifted the bottom pane of the window and slid it upward.
She stooped to poke her head into my room and smiled her big, relentless you-know-you-like-me smile, seemingly oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, this one letter talks about some old records he gave your mom but there aren’t any records in the hatbox and I looked all through the hi-fi cabinet. Do you know what he’s talking about? Do you think we should look through those other boxes in the closet?”