Clive pressed his nose to the glass, his breath sending jets of condensation, fogging the glass.
Outside the white was beginning to abate. Patches of black were appearing on the street, cars were driving past more frequently, and the persistent dripping sound coming from the eaves of his house was maddening to him.
He pushed away from the window and turned back to the kitchen table, covered in a myriad array of ignored homework assignments and procrastinated projects. How was he supposed to know that the weather would change so quickly?
He didn’t mean to get into this position, but what was he supposed to do? That provocative streak of white on the TV weather, that saving grace to any lazy student, it was supposed to have done more than this!
Under his breath Clive said some very impolite things using words that his Mother forbid about the TV weathermen. They’d been the ones that had gotten Clive into this situation, them and their tall tales of “Snowpocalyse” and “Wintermageddon”.
Clive barely even knew what those words meant, but he was sure they hadn’t happened because schools were open tomorrow, and the only world coming to an end was his.
Memphis is scared of any sort of frozen precipitation. If we get even a dusting of snow, the whole city shuts down. Which, deservedly, gets some derision from the populace. But I think those people also forget that we get ice. Ice falling like rain, coating everything in inches of slick death. We’re scared of it all because the worst of it is really, really bad.