The Perfectionist has always hated vacuum salesmen. There's no reason, no traumatic episode in her past, no ex-lover or absent father who is one. She just doesn't like them.
'I don't want a vacuum,' the Perfectionist said.
'I'm not selling vacuums,' he answered. His voice was lyrical, calm and reassuring.
'What are you selling?' Perfectionist asked.
'I'm selling love,' he answered.
The Perfectionist leaned against door jamb. The smell of cigarettes came from her hair and her clothes. She backed out of the doorway and he followed her inside.
In the kitchen he set down his sample case. He tugged up his trouser legs as he sat. He crossed his right leg over his left, revealing argyle socks.
'What kind of love are we interested today?' he asked.
'What kinds do you have?'
'Well,' he said. He stood up. 'I've got the love you want, the love you think you want, the love you think you want but don't when you finally get it...'
'That must be very popular.'
'It is.'
'What else have you got?'
'I've got the love that's yours as long as you do what you're told, the love that worries it's not good enough, the love that worries it'll be found out, the love that fears being judged and found lacking, the love that's almost-but not quite-strong enough, the love that makes you feel they're better than you...'
'Stop.'
'What?'
'I don't whant any of those.'
'What kind do you want?'
'I want the kind I had with Tom.'
'And what kind was it?'
'It was true love,' Perfectionist said.
She locked eyes with the salesman. He swallowed. It made his eyes look sad.
'Than you'll need one of these,' he replied. His eyes didn't look sad any more. They sparkled. He dipped to his right, picked up his sample case, lifted it as high as he could and slammed it onto the kitchen table. He snapped te left clasp open. He snapped the right clasp open. He flipped open the lid, reached in and pulled out a vacuum.
'You are a vacuum salesman?' the Perfectionist hissed.
'You don't really believe true love exists outside one of these?' he asked.
...