The Blues & Billie Armstrong 27
STORM CLOUDS
Previously in The Blues & Billie Armstrong…
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose and searched down at the old brown corded rug where as a child I had mustered troops of little green army men. He shook his head, frowned at the rug, put his glasses on, left the room.
Later Darlene went to bed and my father sat silent in the living room watching TV, the sound of Johnny Carson’s monologue drifting faintly through the house.
I tapped on the glass with my fingernails until Billie came to the window between our rooms. The parents still had no idea she’d managed to open the thing—mangling one of my mother’s good butter knives in the process—or that it had become our private meeting place.