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.