Sweet Talk Stories

by VAUGHN, STEPHANIE

• ISBN13: 9781590515167
• ISBN10: 1590515161
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2012-02-28
• Publisher: Other Press

Summary

Stephanie Vaughn is a writer's writer, one whose debut collection of stories, Sweet Talk, was published more than two decades ago to critical acclaim. Readers have come to these stories over the years through word of mouth, posting glowing reviews to their Goodreads pages and on their blogs-unanimously agreeing that this collection is a modern classic that deserves to be in print. Crafted in graceful, honest prose, Vaughn's stories go straight to the heart of how people live, grow and survive.

Author Biography

Stephanie Vaughn was born in Millersburg, Ohio, and grew up in Ohio, New York, Oklahoma, Texas, the Philippine Islands, and Italy. She was educated at Ohio State University, the University of Iowa (Writers’ Workshop), and Stanford University, where she was a Stegner Fellow and later the Jones Lecturer in Creative Writing. Her stories have appeared in The New Yorker, Redbook, Antaeus, and O. Henry and Pushcart Prize collections. She has also written the introduction for an edition of Willa Cather’s My Ántonia. Stephanie Vaughn teaches English at Cornell University.

Excerpts

Sometimes Sam and I loved each other more when we were angry. “Day,” I called him, using the surname instead of Sam. “Day, Day, Day!” It drummed against the walls of the apartment like a distress signal.
   “Ah, my beautiful lovebird,” he said. “My sugar-sweet bride.”
For weeks I had been going through the trash trying to find out whether he had other women. Once I found half a ham sandwich with red marks that could have been lipstick. Or maybe catsup. This time I found five slender cigarette butts.
   “Who smokes floral-embossed cigarettes?” I said. He had just come out of the shower, and droplets of water gleamed among the black hairs of his chest like tiny knife points. “Who’s the heart-attack candidate you invite over when I’m out?” I held the butts beneath his nose like a small bouquet. He slapped them to the floor and we stopped speaking for three days. We moved through the apartment without touching, lay stiffly in separate furrows of the bed, desire blooming and withering between us like the invisible petals of a night-blooming cereus.
   We finally made up while watching a chess tournament on television. Even though we wouldn’t speak or make eye contact, we were sitting in front of the sofa moving pieces around a chess board as an announcer explained World Championship strategy to the viewing audience. Our shoulders touched but we pretended not to notice. Our knees touched, and our elbows. Then we both reached for the black bishop and our hands touched. We made love on the carpet and kept our eyes open so that we could look at each other defiantly.