The Lingerie Salesman’s Worst Nightmare The bell above the door chimed with a cheery, delicate ring that sounded nothing like the knell of doom Arthur knew it to be. It was 10:00 AM on a Tuesday—the hour of the "Sincere But Lost."
Arthur adjusted his measuring tape. He had survived the Valentine’s Day stampedes and the Christmas Eve panic-buyers, but nothing prepared a man for the sight of a husband holding a crumpled, grease-stained receipt from 2014 and a look of profound spiritual confusion.
"Can I help you find a specific size?" Arthur asked, his voice a practiced velvet.
The man, whose name tag suggested he was a plumbing contractor named Gary, looked at the sea of lace and silk as if he were staring into a breach in the space-time continuum.
"I need," Gary began, his voice cracking, "the one with the bits."
Arthur didn’t blink. "The bits, sir? Ruffles? Lace overlays? Perhaps a balconette with scalloped edges?"
"No," Gary said, gesturing vaguely at his own torso. "The bits that go sproing. My wife said she wanted the one that makes her look like a Victorian ghost but, you know, a sporty one."
This was the first level of the nightmare: The Abstract Description. It was followed quickly by the second: The Physical Comparison to Household Objects. the lingerie salesmans worst nightmare new
"It’s the color of a bruised peach," Gary added, gaining confidence. "Or like a sunset in a polluted city. You got any of those? In a size Medium-Large-Twelve?"
Arthur felt a phantom migraine bloom behind his eyes. In the world of high-end intimate apparel, "Medium-Large-Twelve" was not a size; it was a cry for help. He guided Gary toward a rack of silk chemises, praying for a swift resolution. "Is it this peach, sir?"
Gary poked the silk with a calloused finger. "Too slippery. She wants the one that holds everything in like a heavy-duty radial tire, but feels like a cloud. Also, no wires. Wires are the enemy. But it needs to defy gravity. Can we defy gravity without the wires?"
Arthur sighed. He was no longer a salesman; he was an aerospace engineer working with silk and hope. He began pulling options—wire-free contour bras, longline bralettes, compression lace.
Then came the final boss of the salesman’s nightmare: The Video Call.
"Hold on," Gary said, whipping out a phone with a cracked screen. "She’s at the dentist, but she said to show her the 'vibe' of the store."
Before Arthur could protest, he was staring into a front-facing camera. Gary’s wife, half-numb and reclining in a dental chair, squinted at the screen. The Lingerie Salesman’s Worst Nightmare The bell above
"Gary!" she gargled through a mouthful of cotton. "Not that one! That’s for people with ribs! I don't have those anymore! Find the mauve one with the structural integrity of a suspension bridge!"
Arthur looked at the racks of delicate, spindly things. He looked at Gary, who was now trying to demonstrate the "stretchiness" of a $200 bodysuit by pulling it like a slingshot. He looked at the security camera and wondered if he could fake a fainting spell.
"Sir," Arthur said, gently reclaiming the bodysuit before the lace snapped. "Perhaps a gift card?"
Gary’s face lit up with the radiance of a man who had just been pardoned from the gallows. "A gift card. Yeah. That’s the ticket. Can you put it in a box that looks like I spent three hours picking it out?"
Arthur tucked the card into a gold-foiled box, wrapped it in three layers of tissue, and tied a bow so complex it required a permit. As Gary whistled his way out the door, Arthur leaned against the counter and watched a new customer approach—a teenager holding a photo of a corset from a 1980s music video. The nightmare was a recurring one.
If you’d like to take this story in a different direction, I can: Add a rival salesman who tries to steal the commission. Rewrite it as a fast-paced comedy script.
Give it a supernatural twist where the lingerie is actually cursed. Feature: A growing demand for eco-friendly lingerie that
She buys nothing. She thanks you politely—which somehow makes it worse. And as she walks away, she utters the phrase that will echo in your dreams for weeks:
“I’ll just wear the old one. It’s only mostly dead.”
And then she’s gone. Vanished into the food court, leaving behind only a faint scent of lavender and the lingering feeling that you have failed as a merchant, a tailor, and a human being.
You see, a normal customer signals her intent. She hovers near the mannequins. She glances nervously at the size chart. She pretends to be very interested in a pair of sleep shorts while waiting for the coast to clear.
Not her.
She enters the department like a heat-seeking missile with no brakes. She bypasses the silks, ignores the lace, and heads straight for the “Practical Foundations” table. You know the one. The beige section. The place where dreams go to be lightly compressed.
She locks eyes with you. Not a glance. A lock.
You are now prey.