Dear Valued Customer Heloise,

When you walked into the Mattress Depot, I knew that I must sell you a mattress—for I am the world’s best salesman, and you the finest customer. Never for an instant do I believe you will turn to my peddling rivals, for their mattresses are but lumpy, and you require ultra-plush or pillow-top. Pray tell me you have not sacrificed your dignity, and will return so we might lie together and try out the beds. All I dream of is gratifying you.

Your devoted salesman,
Abelard

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To the World’s Best Salesman,

You grant me incredible satisfaction, but, alas, the Depot does not carry the mattress I desire. In truth, it is not so much that I desire it as that my uncle believes it offers superior lumbar support. I must apologize, Abelard; my uncle is a controlling man. Plus, he’s paying for it.

With deepest regrets,
Heloise

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To Heloise, Who Will Not Let Me Down,

No! I cannot bear it—the thought of you turning to my enemies in pursuit of your intimate requirements. You must remember, Heloise: another salesman may have your mattress in stock, but he can only sell it to you. To him, it is little more than a thing shoved into your minivan. If I sold it, every inch of me would be in tune with the universal splendor of each fiber. Your mattress would not only be delivered; it would be transported. So please, I beg, wait and the merchandise you seek shall arrive.

Devoted as ever,
Abelard

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To My Special Salesman,

While it pains me to disregard my uncle, I cannot deny you. When this letter arrives, you will only then be ordering the Simmons Beautyrest, yet I already count the days—until I see you again. Also, what do you offer by way of comforter sets?

Your finest,
Heloise

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To My Most Valued Customer,

I’m afraid the mattress you seek cannot be ordered, for it contradicts company guidelines. Were I to purchase it, I would be shunned by my managers and cast into the street. The transgression would precede me, wherever I interviewed. Nevertheless, I would sacrifice it all—fame, wealth, invitations to cocktail parties—to sell you what you desire. My rivals are but trifling men, Heloise; they would surely turn you away. But I am no mere mattress salesman. I am the only genuine Mattress Salesman.

Yours forever,
Abelard

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To the Supposedly Genuine Mattress Salesman,

I want to believe you are sincere, but I am starting to doubt. Three months ago, you vowed to purchase my mattress, and still—nothing. (Do you even have the equipment to transport it?) Then today, whilst on an errand, I glanced into your window. I have given myself to you and you alone, yet there you were, handing over your king-size Posturepedic to every curvy brunette hussy with an open checkbook. I cannot help but think you never cared to satisfy me, only yourself. The least you can do is waive the delivery charge.

A dissatisfied customer who needs her Beautyrest,
Heloise

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My Perfect Hel,

Do not let your skepticism guide you, for I remain determined to have you on this mattress within the fortnight. True, I probably sought to satisfy myself first. But, as always, you are next in line. If you only knew the torment I have endured these many months. My mind swims with thoughts of your mattress, and not just because I nap on waterbeds and memory foam. The trainees go untrained. The boy wanting the race-car bed leaves weeping each weekend. I shredded the Sealy arrivals, for their boxy contours reminded me of you—yet they were not yours. Yes, there was that one brunette … but I was so preoccupied I failed to include the tax upon her receipt. My warehouse minions must think me a fool. But I will never hide my devotion. The CEO insisted I cancel the order, and I laughed in his face.

Yours only,
Abelard

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Dear Abelard,

My uncle has read your letter and wishes me to break off our transaction. I said I could not, for a 15 percent fee would result. But he thinks word of our union will disseminate and lead to scandal. I can demand no more. Go now, and redeem yourself in the eyes of your CEO. You’re not just any man, Abelard; you’re a Mattress Salesman, too noble to doze on anything but plywood, deserving of the condescending tone you take with us, the tired masses, who trudge to your store seeking comfort.

I am sorry I have caused you to stoop so low. Alas, I will take your mattress, but I will never sign the remainder of the contract. Surely this will thwart scandal.

Ever your finest,
Heloise

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Your Last Letter Torments Me, Heloise,

For your mattress has arrived, and I was about to recommend that you stop by so we might test its springs. Now this proposal that we part ways—it cuts straight to my natural-latex core. I’m afraid that, for my suffering, I will require nothing less than 20 percent.

Devoted as ever,
Abelard

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Dear Salesman No. 27 at Mattress Depot,

I must apologize for the spectacle my uncle caused in your store. Having those goons cut off your tongue so you can no longer haggle correctly was a step too far. Thanks for the lovely mattress, though.

Heloise

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Dear Former Salesman No. 27,

Though it has been many years since you sold me my mattress, and though I have repented for my past indulgences—especially my insistence on 1,500-count Egyptian sheets—I still think of you. I hear you are traveling now, selling your mattresses door-to-door, in constant fear that your rivals will take you out to the curb. But I simply must know: is there a way to remove a giant whiskey stain from the mattress pad? Also, why the hell did you sell me a full-size Serta when I specifically asked for a queen-size Simmons? Maybe one day we shall meet and ponder these dilemmas. When you find the time, please stop by. I will unfold the couch for you.

Heloise