Detica

"Are you Detica?" he asks me and I sigh, annoyed. I shake my head.

"Do you work with or deal with them?" he persists and I shake my head again, letting go of the warm handshake he'd initially given me. He's 38 or 40 years old, tired and broken. Washed up. I warm to him.

"I'm not Detica," I say, smiling. "I don't even know who Detica is," I add. "Do you?"

In my mind I see a scenario where a revelation occurs, a truth becomes known, a lesson is learned.

"No," he says. Such a pourer of cold water. How infantile. How like a god.
 
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