I'm sorry I dread walking into your work area because the smell of 75 different perfumes makes me want to gag.
I'm sorry I pretend to be on my phone or listening to my Ipod as I walk by so I can avoid eye contact.
I'm sorry I walk half way around the store to avoid any chance of being stopped.
I know inevitability what is going to happen. You're going to insist on spraying me with the newest most offensive fragrance to hit your counter. Maybe by Paris Hilton or Jennifer Aniston, who I'm sure are both real experts in the art of fragrance.
I know as I politely reject your offer you will anxiously hand me a fragrance card instead. I'll touch it, and like a flesh eating bacteria, I won't be able to wash the smell away. To make matters worse, I'll feel guilty about throwing the card away in front of you, so I'll nonchalantly throw it into my beautiful bag. An hour later when I open it up to pull out my wallet, I'll realize the smell has infected everything inside, and I carry a big bag so the casualties will be immense.
I'm sorry your manager fails to understand the art of subtlety and knows not the fear customers have of overly aggressive saleswomen carrying a large bottle of perfume.
I'm sorry because it's not your fault. You're only trying to earn a living. And I promise to try and acknowledge your existence as I walk by next time.
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