Rita took a long luxurious bath. She was dressing in the bedroom when Frank entered, his expression furious. He held her wet washcloth. She watched water drip from its pink terry folds, making damp spots on the carpet. His back stiffened as he looked imperiously down his nose at her. “I know what you’ve been doing with this,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t know.”
—Angela Moore, Why They Call It Half Moon Bay
I'm more like I am today than I was yesterday.
Art, photography, poetry and prose of Tito Titus occasionally tucked in amongst work by other writers, poets, artists, and photographers.
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