SALESMANIt was late.
The store was as quiet as it was not. An empty store meant less customers, which meant his music choice didn't have to be quite as palatable, nor did it have to be played at a sensible volume. The only people who came in at this hour were regulars; people who knew who he was, knew his quirks. He was sweeping, now; gliding across the day's dust with the broom, almost dancing with it in his steps. He was singing into it like it was a microphone, projecting his voice like he was on stage. His register was a little lower than the song in question, but he made it work. Vanity always made it work.
-SO THE NEXT TIME THAT YOU THINK THAT YOU DON'T NEED THIS
LOSE TOUCH WHEN YOU NEED TO BE COMPROMISED
WITH ROSES IN A HOLSTER-
His audience of one, Carrie, took this as her queue to leave.