The Sale. Part 3. A short story.

The living room was immense, I almost needed binoculars to identify the furniture. This consisted of a few ornate and dusty lounges, chairs and a worn coffee table, all encircling a huge twenty-foot wide hearth, a fire burning briskly within. Exotic, cobweb-covered chandeliers shone dimly from the ceiling far above—the light they cast had very little impact on the dancing shadows cast by the flames. My previous confidence in a quick sale was evaporating, unlike the sweat forming on my brow from the heat in the room. The butler lurched to a stop by the door, out of breath.

Standing before the crackling fire was a short woman: young and thin, attractive, with shoulder length red hair, dressed in a twenties-style shimmering knee high cocktail dress that had seen better days. “So, you’re a cleaner?” Her voice was accented, something European, but not easily definable.

I smiled and held out my hand. “I’m John,” I said. “I’m here to clean one sofa or floor, obligation free. And all you have to do is watch a demonstration of the amazing Dirby Vacuum Cleaner.”

She shrank back in horror. Guess my pitch needed some work. Her face screwed up in a look of angry intensity, verging on rage. I was taken aback—it wasn’t like I was a Jehovah’s Witness or anything. As she spoke, she ground out each syllable through clenched teeth. “My-mother-was-killed-by-a-vacuum-cleaner.”

Well, that was unexpected.

To be continued…

(And my apologies to any Jehovah’s Witnesses reading this. I have nothing against you, it just sounded funny in context.)

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