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DELUGE

Sitting in a doctor’s office two drug salesmen who have already made their pitch, wait for the monsoon to ease. The parking lot’s a low lake with islands of asphalt. Sewer grates can’t gulp water fast enough. The detailers talk rock music loudly, singing bits of the latest songs. One plays the drums on his sample case, the other imitates a falsetto. Waiting patients, a frail couple with white hair wearing sneakers, a teenage girl with a nose ring, two middle-age men in suits, read months-old magazines, rehearse what they will say to the doctor. A man in a windbreaker reads his book, looks up at the salesmen hoping they will notice him looking, realize they are disturbing him. After a few minutes he gets up, walks to the door, looks out at the deluge, walks back to his seat and in a loud voice says to his wife, “I think it has let up a lot.” One detailer says to the other, “Well, it guess it’s let up. Let’s go.”