Sweat
drips down my lower
back and
strains through the lace
on my panties,
which are not wet in the
sexy
kind of way but
more of in the
"No one touch me"
kind of way.
I extend my legs
to air out the backs
of my knees and
rivulets race and dip and
swirl around my ankles
pooling in my
would-be "cool" sandals
which end up being
more of a nuisance
than they're worth
getting caught under
the gas pedal of
a borrowed truck
and making me
question why
I ever took this
job in the first
place.
No one wants to buy
wine or
bread or
frozen buffalo meat or
anything
when it's one hundred degrees
outside, and no
one wants to waste
the better part of a day
not making money
and not making
progress.
I can't believe people
actually enjoy this
weather. Everyone
I see looks
like a soda can
by a swimming pool
and no chance
of hopping in.
My feet
are filled with
fire ants
running and
running and
they only hit
dead end after
dead end.
The sandals provided me
only the pleasure
of dryness
but also crackedness.
Sand and fire ants
and an oasis
is out of the question.
A simple impossibility
that I've come to
accept.
I've noticed it doesn't
matter what the weather
is, just as long as
we can always
mention it in passing
in a semblance of
a greeting
an attempt to
split the silence
and the intimacy
that comes when you
accidentally
look me in the face.
I promise I won't try to
sell you something you
don't want.
I'm not invested enough
to showboat it
around.
I do know, however,
that if we exchange
more than a few
words, you'll end
up buying something
anyway.
