Bluish pale.
A shiver of frost creeping over the tides of air.
Nudging so softly, like cotton wisps, before disappearing.
But not disappearing.
Sinking into me, the sweet Novocain of coldness turning.
Twisting.
Shaking.
Morphing.
Into a stinging pain.
That sends my highly advanced brain back to the raw times of caves and fire and lonely nomadic nights in the wilderness.
Stay warm, stay heated.
I can’t feel my body, only the quivers that shiver me from head to toe. Delicately and artfully done. My tender skin is ice against ice. Like frozen dew found on a snowy morning.
I blink hard, eyes dry. Wanting only to burn in the sun.
To let my skin fry and crack and sizzle and singe like bacon against
A scalding, greased pan.
I want to feel swear dripping down my neck, weighing my clothes to my body like flypaper.
I want to lick my lips and yearn for water.
“Time to go, Honey,” my mom’s voice says.
So I stand up, and walk outside, away from the freezing, air-conditioned diner.