The First Snowball

 It hits the pane of glass with a dense, walloping doof. He responds with a smirk and a quickening of limbs. Once outside, he packs them small and lopsided, hurling with the giddy, unbridled eagerness of a short stop on the field the first spring day. Sometimes they fall apart midair

I love the way they look when they're freezing: white porcelain skin with no color, drained and concentrated in the form of pinched-pink cheeks, dark lips and eyes that seem to sparkle more than usual. Unwelcome snow creeps into fabric crevices, mittens get heavy and wet before turning stiff like fist-shaped ice packs, and all I can think about is peeling off cold clothing while they stand on heating grates in their socks, and warming their bellies with hot chocolate.