On selling time
March 13, 2011 § Leave a comment
She knows she’s lost them. She knows within minutes of sitting down.
This couple are exchanging glances even before she’s sat down, and she can’t get them whilst they’re like this, thick as thieves, listening out for one another rather than listening to her.
It’s easier when they’ve been together long enough that the offer can form a plaster, or a placation, or a distraction – something to sit between a couple, that at first glance might seem like a bridge but which is more like a hard-driven wedge.
These two are wasting her time and it feels, somehow, as if they’re mocking her. They never intended to buy, and they won’t come out and just tell her straight, so they must all dance round in this awkward manoeuvre.
She doesn’t care, though, not really. She knows she’ll make her commission from that couple earlier, who never thought to ask the obvious questions – the way the woman looked at the man, our woman knew she had them. No need to try. No need to repeat herself long and loud over protestations and pauses. No need to listen to excuses and qualifications.
These people must be endured, even the ones who would never buy, and so for her sport she hands out jibes as if they were her business card, in hope of a bite, but these people won’t even give her that.
She knows that if she were to drive past them later they would be walking along, engrossed in one another, probably planning some holiday that can’t be sold, where they might camp in a muddy field and endure primitive conditions, believing they’re having fun or that it’s good for them.
Luxury is wasted on these people, she is thinking. These people who are naive enough to believe that what they feel for one another will really last longer than this timeshare scheme.