You were the perfect salesman.

So I bought what you kept assuring me had a good enough warranty by appearing back into my life each time I even imagined closing that door and moving out of the neighbourhood.

Each time I’d start packing up to leave you’d knock on the door selling yet another illusion of a moment worth holding onto. And each time, against my better judgment, I’d buy that moment. And each time you turned to head down the driveway, holding my money and me holding the change in my hand- without fail- each moment would break.

The number of cheap moments I bought. The number of times I called you back and attempted to run after you to ask for a refund, an exchange, anything…

You were the perfect salesman.

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