I didn’t expect to find myself in the back of Mr. Klein’s store, wearing only my undershirt and panties, surrounded by sable. ‘Sable is right for you, Suseleh,’ Mr. Klein said, draping a shawl-collared jacket over me. ‘Perfect for your skin and your eyes. A million times a day the boys must tell you. Such skin.’
— For some reason, I had not read Amy Bloom’s first collection of short stories, Come to Me, until oh, 20 hours ago. That striking Chip Kidd cover stared at me from my shelf, but given the number of lady-penned short story collections I’ve been waist-deep in lately as a result of a) the winter, generally felt, b) the winter, as it pertains to acute needs for words that read like tea leaves, and c) the sheer number of those I have to plow through, I hadn’t picked it up. And then I did. And she may write the best opening lines I’ve seen.