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Excerpts The Razor Salesman
The razor salesman doesn't say anything. His skin is grey like overchewed gum. His trousers are perfectly pressed, a high, neat ridge ironed straight down the front. The sun is setting behind him, painting a golden outline across his neck and smooth, round face. He is wearing a grey suit (with gold foil shoulders, it seems) and black shoes. Beside his left shoe is another small briefcase. A larger one. Why does he need so many razors? "Who buys all these?" Ellen asks. The razor salesman is smiling with a thin, lipless mouth. "People like you," he says, but he doesn't elaborate. Ellen decides she doesn't like him. She can make that kind of decision very quickly. But it's a shame he's not selling something else, something she could use. Home delivered, and everything. What a waste. She shakes her head and shuts the door firmly. Turns back inside and sighs. The house is a mess again and the boys are shouting upstairs. Bloodcurdling shouts, like maybe they're being murdered. Ellen waits for the silence of a successful homicide, but it doesn't come. I guess they're still alive, then, she thinks. Not without humour.
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