He told me how he bought plain white t-shirts at 30 cents each from Bangladesh and sold them at a 30% mark up. Didn’t say where though, and I had a feeling he was lying. He used to clean toilets in Miami, a long way from t-shirts I thought but still, he’d tell me how he never once complained about what he used to do. His suit looked as if he’d just found it in Bernardo’s. Pale blue shirt, too pale, too worn, washed out and beaten, and his yellow used-to-be silk tie rippled as he swung his story from left to right. He slurred when he spoke, and that made me uneasy so I said I had to use the toilet, he said he did to. So side by side along the urinal he told me about his cash flow forecasts, potential buyers, sellers and his new Barclays bank account, especially designed for his business needs. I just kept thinking of rain, sheets of the stuff, anything to picture a long flowing waterfall or running facet, overflowing sinks, puddles and ceiling leaks, and still, I had stage fright. I could smell his breath, taste his sweat attacking the air like a can of deodorant kills perspiration, I could even see the drops of piss he spilt on his shoes. After a quick comb of the hair and straighten of the tie, he told me he’d see me outside, relief. Outside though he was nowhere to be found, probably called into the meeting room. I leant against the pure white unmarked door I was yet to enter expecting to hear his dirty slur, but instead I heard nothing, not even a clock tick.