Come Up and See Me Sometime

Come Up and See Me Sometime
Erika Krouse

A smart, funny and remarkably polished collection of stories that combines the universal addictive appeal of Melissa Bank and Helen Fielding with the nervy, neurotic wit of Lorrie Moore.'She’s fierce and original, and anyone who loves language and relishes what makes people tick will fall in love with her.' Anna Shapiro, Observer'Exquisite. I gobbled up this book in one sitting.' Anna MaxtedThe spirit of Mae West, the original liberated woman, lives on in this smart, funny collection of bittersweet tales of sex, cynicism and the single girl.'Krouse's small-but-large tales of births, marriages and deaths have that gently Alan Bennett quality that comforts but unnerves all at the same time.' Lesley McDowell, Independent of Sunday'A thoughtful and funny look at sex and the single girl.' Company'This is arch, wise, accomplished storytelling.' Melissa Denes, Daily Telegraph'Krouse's wistful, tender vision illuminates the bittersweet behind the bravado.' Daily Mail'Frisky and unexpectedly serious. Full of zingy one-liners that would give Mae West a run for her money.' New York Times

Come Up

and

See Me

Sometime

Erika Krouse

Praise (#ulink_e901a707-6fe0-51fd-bf17-8ece008e937d)

Miss West … you are the greatest female impersonator of all time.

—George Davis

It’s just lousy enough to be funny.

—Variety reviewer of Mae West’s The Constant Sinner

For my girl Meghan

Contents

Cover (#u9ff0003c-789b-5a56-b43d-0b2294cea734)

Title Page (#ue7a4d713-8710-54f4-918f-d705ed8508a4)

Praise (#ufd2db9e6-af33-5809-b8e0-3ce55317661e)

My Weddings (#u8bb6e1d4-7f01-59d1-9dd0-b6a0822ba7c7)

No Universe (#uec106b06-64f6-5d44-99b9-41f74a908f5c)

Drugs and You (#u38807a60-ac34-505d-a3d1-1cec35363d0e)

Mercy (#litres_trial_promo)

Too Big to Float (#litres_trial_promo)

Other People’s Mothers (#litres_trial_promo)

Her First Earthquake (#litres_trial_promo)

Impersonators (#litres_trial_promo)

Momentum (#litres_trial_promo)

The Husbands (#litres_trial_promo)

The Fast (#litres_trial_promo)

Via Texas (#litres_trial_promo)

What I Wore (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Endless thanks to Sarah McGrath, Mary Evans, and Daniel Wallace for all their help with this book. Thanks also to the magazine editors who first published these stories, especially Michael Curtis and Will Allison. Big thanks to the Alps Boulder Canyon Inn, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. And last, thanks to all my friends for their support.

My Weddings (#ulink_41636b29-1bc5-5a16-9687-1c6f1c1ec4aa)

I’m single because I was born that way.

—Mae West

My first wedding was Aunt Marcia’s second. I wore a straw hat with a baby blue ribbon. The church was like an old schoolroom. Before the “I do,” before the kiss, I fainted away in the pew. My mother carried me out the back door, rolling her eyes.

Queasy, I sat on the cement steps. “You’d better not do that at your wedding,” my mother told me, and spat on a handkerchief to wash my face. I started to cry, because I was confused, and because I had lost my hat. My mother touched my tears with the corner of the handkerchief. “There,” she said, “that’s a little more appropriate.” When I got home, before I even unbuckled my patent leather shoes, I opened the big blue dictionary and looked up “appropriate.”

MY FRIEND Pamela liked to play Bride. She was usually the bride, since we played at her house. I was usually the minister.

We had wrapped her head in a bedsheet with lace doilies stapled to it. Her bouquet was green and red tissue paper. She wore her best dress-up clothes—orange beads, and a pink evening gown that trailed behind her. The only trouble was, she kept stepping on it in front. “This stupid thing,” she said as she walked down the hallway, while I sang, “Here comes the bride,” in my loudest, most celebratory voice.

“Hey,” I said as she approached the cardboard box altar. “Your dress isn’t white.”

“So?”

I tried a different approach. “When can I be the bride?”

“After I’m the bride,” Pamela said, adjusting her veil.

I knew that this offer meant nothing. A second bride was no kind of bride.

“Do you take this man to be your awfully wedded husband?” I said in a bored voice.

“I do.” Pamela was demure, holding her bouquet lightly in her fingers.

“Kiss the bride.”

Pamela kissed the air passionately.