She Was a Moscow, Idaho Girl and She Just Didn’t Feel the Cold

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She sat there like winter had forgotten her.
Like she’d stepped out of some basement biology lab where someone tried to knit a human being out of washers, lace, and leftover tractor parts, and she’d simply decided it was good enough.

People passing through the park pulled their scarves tighter, squinting at her silhouette—
that patterned skin like frost growing in spirals,
those hair-curls made of coiled metal thought-loops,
the quiet patience of someone who’d stopped believing in temperature altogether.

She didn’t shiver.
Not once.

In Moscow, Idaho, winter is a religion, and she was its apostate saint.
A girl who’d grown up shrugging off blizzards the way other kids shrugged off compliments.

If you asked her why she wasn’t wearing a coat, she’d smile the way a snowflake smiles right before it lands on your tongue, and say:

“Oh, this? I’m only visiting the world today. Cold doesn’t stick to me.”

And you’d believe her,
because some people really are immune—
not to weather,
but to the ordinary laws that make the rest of us shake.