“Someone in our family had taken to wiping his or her ass on the bath towels. What made this exceptionally disturbing was that all our towels were fudge-colored. You’d be drying your hair when, too late, you noticed an unmistakable odor on your hands, head, and face.”

“Towel and talk, how similar are they, both wipes dry water. One on the hate and latter in the head.”

“She used the bathroom, running the tap noisily and disturbing the towels. She knew immediately that her mother had bought these towels — cream, a ridiculous color for towels — and monogrammed — also ridiculous, my mother thought. But then, just as quickly, she laughed at herself. She was beginning to wonder how useful her scorched-earth policy had been to her all these years. Her mother was loving if she was drunk, solid if she was vain. When was it all right to let go not only of the dead but of the living—to learn to accept?”

“Here, baby. Here’s a towel.” She reached back, unable to face the man, and grasped the towel he handed her. Of course, it was a dish towel and not much good.”

“Her brain, which had up until then still been in the shower, toweled off and joined her on the beach. It whispered a tiny thought to her and then went to dry its hair.”

“I’m a tiger made out of a paper towel, and I’m going to wipe you out.”