Her salesman had hair like a fountain on top of his head, and then it came down around at the sides of his head to just above his shoulders. He had a boy’s physicalness, yet his mustache was gray and he never thanked her for the big sale.
No one would ever say of him—He has such a nice face or that he looks like such a nice man, but he had not intended to misuse her.
After all, hadn’t he tried to stop her from buying one of the heaviest mattresses that she surely will regret purchasing.
That poor decision of hers is well past her now as she presses her paint roller from here to there and back while she is uttering little grunts that sound reasonable as she shifts her ladder.
The ceiling turns terra-cotta—the walls will be red, the door cerulean blue, the sills and window sashes kelly green. There’ll be a turquoise mantel—and, for her dinner—more pleasure and change. She’ll cook a strong-juiced vegetable, prepare a medley salad with many previously protected and selected things in it.
The salesman, at his home, empties a pitcher of water into a potted plant that has produced several furred buds that he’s been studying and waiting on—courting, really—but it’s as if these future flowers intentionally thwart him. He assumes responsibility for their behavior.
Also, he thinks he doesn’t know how to get people to do things.
He takes a cloth and wipes the greasy face of his computer. He checks his mustache in the mirror to see if it is trimmed properly.
He asks himself, What do you want to ask me? Will you look at that?
To begin with he thinks he’s had enough of chewing on his mustache. The next thought after that is—What a lot of wild sprouts there are above his mouth—and he assumes responsibility for their behavior. The step after that is to get his hairbrush and the scissors and to approach the real challenge, which is to steady his oscillating hand so he can aim it at the appropriate section of his face where the offensive hairs are. Then he brushes the mustache to see how unevenly he’s cut it, and then it depends on how much time he has, not enough. Should he adjust the one side to match the other side?—because there is a limit. He may end up cutting off his entire mustache.
He presses his face closer to the mirror. He could not make it out, could not recognize the opportunity for bewitching himself.