“Are both y’all smoking black tar heroin?” drawled Grandma Lizette from FaceTime on Audre’s phone. Her disembodied head was as glamorous as ever—CoverGirl red lipstick, shoulder-length bobbed waves, and cheekbones kissed by angels. She was sixty-five, looked forty-nine, and sounded eighty with her raspy, cigarette-inflected, Louisiana bayou drawl. In her accent, the line sounded like “Ahh both y’all smokin’ black tahh HAIR-win?”
Lmfao!
