On the other end, I could hear the background noise of the store—a jingle bell ringing above a door and the drone of small talk. “What’s your address ma’am?” the salesman asked.

I hurried to put on blush and perfume. In the bathroom, I consulted my reflection and tried to assess exactly how pretty I was. It was a difficult task, like asking: Are trees pretty? Are thunderclouds ugly? At some point, a thing simply looked how it looked. But here I was, on the cusp of something big. And I did look pretty. I had to, or I’d never have the courage to do what needed to be done. I smiled to myself in the mirror. A dental hygienist once told me that my smile was dazzling.

When the doorbell rang, I smoothed my hair and took a deep breath before opening the door. On the other side stood a man with a vacuum. He was tall—too tall for my taste—with broad shoulders and a decent chin. He was maybe late twenties, early thirties—not the worst, but not the best either. On his shirt was a nametag that read EARL, an unfortunate detail that could be easily forgotten, along with his eyes, which were wide set and sort of dopey looking, like a sloth’s. If you focused on his Adam’s apple, he was halfway to handsome.

“Is your mother home?” asked Earl.

“You know, she just ran out for a quick errand, but she’ll be back soon.” I smiled and pushed out my chest. “Come in and wait if you want.”

He grabbed his gear and followed me inside, where he appeared many times larger than he had on the porch. He stooped over, as if the ceiling threatened to come down on him. His let his arms dangle and fidget, as if afraid they might, at any moment, lash out and break something.

“Want to sit?” I asked.

He looked at the couch and lowered himself carefully, as if trying not to cause an atmospheric disturbance. “Are you sure your mom’ll be back soon? I don’t mind coming back another day.”

“Any minute, now. Really.”

I wasn’t sure how to stall, how to talk to someone like him. Aside from the eye doctor, I had never had this before—the private company of an adult man I didn’t know. I played up my maturity, crossing my legs and asking him if he’d like some coffee, although I’d never made coffee in my life.

“I could go for a cup,” he said. “Black is fine.”

I told him all right, but made no move toward the kitchen and hoped that he would forget about it.

“So, something happen to your mother’s vacuum?” he asked.

“It’s the funniest thing. It just broke down all of sudden. Made a weird smell and started eating up the carpet.”

“Well, that’s just the thing this machine won’t do—you probably don’t know much about vacuums yet, huh? You’re just a girl. But it’s an investment, really. The average woman spends more than a grand on vacuums throughout her life. They buy cheap, and then they have to keep replacing it every year or two. But this thing,” he petted the vacuum like it was a dear old golden retriever, “it’ll last a lifetime. That’s what the guarantee’s for.”