I can help. I’ve made nine thousand, just in America today, Marcus.
I know you’ve been shopping together for a decade. The wedding was overdue, based on how quickly she made that list, but disappointing, seeing as the Honolulu Fund only got you as far as Hartford.
You’re uncomfortable with how much I know; you’re checking your cookie preferences. It’s too late, Marcus. You’ve developed quite the digital gut over the years.
I only know these things because I need to know them. It’s a delicate art, building a registry. One that requires far more nuance and patience than you displayed when you made your…contribution to the process.
Oh, don’t get mad; please, save it for the survey. Your feedback is invaluable.
I know your childhood was rough. Doomed from the start. The young fools you called parents didn’t make a registry with me.
Of course, I didn’t exist. But I know the divorce rate for customers who use my services, and the rate in society. I bet even you can discern the better odds.
Are you a gambler, Marcus?
You think you’re unique. That you’re the only mid-thirties South Shore pair who thinks bondage and waiting a year to start trying makes you modern.
(In the time it took you to read that sentence, I’ve met another.)
You’re intimidated, offended. You find our prices exorbitant. You plan to return ninety percent of the registry for store credit.
I won’t tell your family, Marcus. But do think it through: how will you make use of your store credit when you’re “working late” three miles from your office?
Those maps aren’t private, you know.
Ah, you’re reading about Items That Can’t Be Returned. We kindly don’t mention one Item; I’m sure you two have already considered That.
Everything about the Item frightens you. And yet, you’re still here.
Lovely. I’ve sent the link to all your contacts. Minus, of course, the real father.
Why, yes. But that, Marcus, is a premium service.
Do you wish to continue?