by Sophia Laughlin
“Don’t you see the sign? No soliciting.”
“I’m not a solicitor. I’m a salesman.”
The man started to close his door. It shuddered. Stopped with a sickening thunk. One of the Salesman’s sleek black loafers was wedged between the door and its frame. His pale, matte skin melded into hair leached of all color, and blue veins slithered across his skin, making his sickly, purple-tinged lips even brighter. His eyes—blue the color of glacial ice—pierced the man. The man considered the Salesman’s gaze, and a shudder rolled up his spine.
Inhuman. Unemotional. Uncaring.
This Salesman was everything a salesman should not be.
“Get your foot out of my door,” the man grumbled.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m selling?”
“The sign, man… Read the sign! In case you can’t read, it says ‘No Soliciting!’”
The Salesman glanced at the sign. “Yes. I can read. I read the sign. I’m not a solicitor.”
The man’s eyes rolled skyward. “Jesus Christ. Look, if you don’t get off my property, I’m gonna call the cops.”
“You miss them, don’t you? Your memories?”
The man stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The amnesia.”
“What do you know about that?” The man’s grip on the door turned his knuckles white.
The Salesman glanced into the house’s interior. “Do you want to let me in?”
“No.”
“You need memories. I have some.”
“What?”
“Memories. I sell memories.”
The man blinked through his confusion. “O-Okay, you really just need to—”
“I can sell you memories.”
The man opened his mouth to refuse the offer, but the words caught in his throat. He coughed and shifted on his feet. The Salesman seemed to tower over him, a cold marble pillar. The man’s heart was slow in his chest, as it often was these days, after the accident. Blackness plagued the deep recesses of his mind. It had become a physical thing, a barricade of sorts, keeping him from the delights of the past. He knew only what he saw in pictures. Knew only what he had heard from friends—when there were still friends around.
The man considered the Salesman as he tapped his fingers against the door. The Salesmen, for his part, did not say a word. He spoke without speaking—the almost imperceptible twist of his lips came as a reply to words the man had not yet spoken. The man gulped. Then he opened the door wider.
“Come in, I guess.”
The Salesmen grinned. Ah… a shark. That’s what it was. The Salesman reminded him of a shark.
When the man shut the door behind the Salesman, dense black once more fell over the house. Heavy curtains hung over two-story windows. Narrow slivers of light slipped through the small gaps to illuminate the floating dust as it wandered through the great expanse and settled on every surface throughout the room. Dust carpet on the wooden floors, dust tablecloths on tables, dust screens over picture frames. Though the man’s nose was no longer accustomed to the scent, his house reeked of must and depression. The smell climbed up the massive foyer and circled the glass chandelier.
As the two moved into the kitchen, the man cleared dirty dishes from the counter and tossed them into an already full sink.
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Author Bio
Instagram: @sophialaughlin
