What sort of scale were they working with to think that she and her husband didn’t qualify for something, anything! Middle-class misery
That daughter was doing a good job on her mother; there was no reason for Laya to interfere. The girl would make the sale all by herself, Laya thought, casting a careful sidelong glance at the pair in the corner.
“I’ll wear it every Shabbos, I know! They have gold on them, all my outfits match with gold. Nude shoes are too mature, I’m not 20!”
Yes, yes, keep going. Laya tried to telepathically message the daughter to try the, “It’s not so expensive when you think about the cost per wear” tactic. The mother seemed near breaking point. Laya had already brought out six pairs of shoes, and they’d hit Macy’s and Lord and Taylor before coming to Tziptoes. Nordstrom was next.
The mother looked exhausted, her shoulders drooped, she just needed a little push. Laya was sure the daughter would deliver, allowing Laya to maintain her dignity and not become the aggressive overseller some anonymous Google reviewer had dubbed her.
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