I finish "getting zapped," (as my mother requested I call my radiation treatments - I was formerly calling it "getting nuked" but apparently that's a bit "excessive") and, after getting dressed, head to the front to check out and go home. The windows of the waiting room, however, are filled with grey, unsettled darkness and what looks like a biblical flood, the kind where a man has taken a number of paired animals onto his very large boat and is heading down the East River to the Sound.
"It's pouring," says the woman at the reception desk, spreading her arms to show off the trash bag she has cut a hole in to make it an impromptu rain poncho.
"You seem prepared," I say, and she nods happily.
One year ago today: Time Bully
Two years ago today: Signs of Age