Humidity

The hot Georgia heat seeps into your skin. The air here is so thick it traps you. It is 97 with a heat index of 110 and everybody walks a little slower, chasing shadows and breezes.

People complain in the heat. When you visit you will wear a streaming layer of sweat and your clothes will soak through.

Man, it’s hot. Tempers rise. Tourists stumble into my bar slouching. They all comment and stare off and fan themselves. I don’t wait to make them a glass of water. I smile and tell them to take a look. I’ll get you started.

Thank you! That’s what I need. It’s so hot.

I am used to this heat. I used to complain. Sit in the AC. Worry about my makeup running or my hair coming out of place. Now I embrace the disheveled look of a survivor of the sun.

My sunny demeanor warms them and the beer cools them. All the patrons are windswept and sunbeat, they have melted and sit and sip quietly.

They are soft and manipulative. Smile and banter. They open up. Bar stories are a real thing. People get sad, they get mad, they get happy. I work in a tourist town. I meet people from all over, hear their stories. I see so much and sometimes I’m elated and sometimes it makes me sad.

But I am used to it. I can’t complain.
I like this Georgia heat
Because when I cry it joins with streams of sweat on my cheek.

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