Outside the Texas supermarket, the asphalt was melting at one hundred and two degrees.
I walked through the automatic sliding doors, and I entered the Arctic Circle.
I walked to the milk section. Frost was clinging to the steel shelves. My fingers lost sensation in forty seconds.
Beside me, an American man in cargo shorts and flip-flops was humming softly, taking his time choosing vanilla ice cream. His skin must be made of iron.
I pulled my blanket tighter around my shoulders, white breath puffing from my mouth.
I bought my milk and sprinted to my car to thaw against the windshield.
I keep a winter coat in my trunk now. Not for winter. For groceries.