Muggy

In a world that wears its mud like a second skin, the air drips with the quiet hesitation of a London fog that clings to the tram and the shop‑fronts of the East End. Muggy, they say, and no one needs to ask if it’s summer or mid‑winter – just the dampness that thickness curls around the cobblestones.

The sky above is a dull slate, and beneath it every breath is a ghost of a sigh. From the Thames to the Canterbury parish, the rivers know how to hold water in their limbs and never let it quite leave – a slow, unhurried tease.

He leaves his coat at the door, a breath in his back, and the street, a damp riddle, answers with a hum. A hot tea in a porcelain mug, steam curling, an old friend’s nod that says, “Ye may be hot but we’re wetter, and that’s a fine comfort in the muggy after‑glow.”

People with umbrellas make a parade, a bright rash against the grey heave. Some are unafraid, others retreat to their tea‑rooms, to the hum of the kettle, the ancient cross‑stitch of heat that sighs out into the night.

The muggy warmth is a subtle, unwilling lull. It stains the pavement, sits in the vents, slides a lazy secrecy between the seams of the city, a damp ballet that sways the high‑rise palms and the rooftop gardens that cling to the air.

In Britain, one would say: “Right, the muggy you’ve got to get used to, and as the hair of the tea in your ear shows, you’re still standing, with your coat, and that’s daylight waiting, an earned cup, a little dance and a chat about the day.”