The Game

Nina arrived just before eleven. A little early for two women who liked to stay in bed too long, but today there were important things to do. Anna didn't open the door right away. From inside came hurried footsteps, the dull thud of something dropped, then the click of a lock. She appeared in the doorway wearing a dark blue coat, a glittering butterfly embroidered on the sleeve. A stubborn strand of hair was escaping from under a hat she was pulling on with one hand while opening the door with the other. She looked as though, first thing that morning, she had managed to pick a fight with the fridge — which, naturally, turned out to be completely out of milk — with her coffee for boiling over yet again, and, for good measure, with the very meaning of life, which before noon always seemed particularly elusive.

"I'm ready," she announced.

Nina looked at her and smiled. Neither of them believed it.

"I can see that."

"Don't."

"I'm not."

Anna went back inside for her gloves, finally came out, locked the door, and they set off into the city. The matter was important. Without discussing it, both had been telling themselves so all morning. There was a place they had to reach before one o'clock: papers to sign, something to confirm, an opportunity not to waste. It all felt serious, practically the most important thing in the world.

Winter had fully settled into the city. Snow had fallen in the night, and now the light was so clean and sharp that even the old buildings, ordinarily sullen, looked like they were made of crystal. The air was so still that every step rang out in the snow.

"You brought the documents?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Nina, if you ask again, I'll eat them."

"That would certainly solve the problem."

Anna laughed, caught herself, then remembered and laughed even harder. The butterfly on her sleeve shivered as if it might actually take off.

At the corner, Nina slowed down, bent, and scooped up a handful of cold white snow. It was dense and cooperative, curling in her palm like a small animal settling in for a nap. A moment later she was holding a nearly perfect sphere — round, firm, already a little threatening.

Anna shivered.

"We're not six, you know."

"The snowball doesn't care," said Nina. "It doesn't discriminate.”

At that instant, another snowball came flying from deep inside the park and landed squarely on the butterfly. It shuddered but, naturally, did not take off. Both women turned.

Nearby, some children had built a fortress — a solid snow wall, sagging at the edges, but constructed with such gusto it looked impossible to storm. Above its white ramparts bobbed winter hats and bright watchful eyes tracking the women with unconcealed interest. Nina's snowball had been spotted, and the fortress held its breath, waiting. Something rustled behind the wall, a mitten flashed, then another. Snowballs arced toward them, as if the Snow Queen herself were scattering pearls across the air.

Nina threw before she even thought about it. Her snowball sailed wide, hit the wall, and burst apart. But Anna had already formed one of her own. Her throw was surprisingly accurate: it caught one of the bobbing hats, and from behind the wall came an outraged, completely delighted shriek. Everything sprang into motion. The women bent for snow, packed it fast, threw without aiming, laughed when they missed and laughed louder when they didn't. The children shrieked and ducked, then immediately popped back out, answering with volleys of their own.

Snow flew in every direction, slipping down collars, settling on eyelashes. Cheeks flushed. Eyes shone. From somewhere above, through a half-open window, a woman's voice cut through the air:

"Alex, come inside this instant! You'll catch cold!"

A disgruntled owner of a furry helmet separated from the fortress and trudged home, a vanquished knight brought low not by battle but by a voice. The women remembered, too, that they had something important to do.

They lingered one more moment. Waved to the children, who were not lost but found in the game, then walked on. The snow continued to crunch underfoot. Somewhere nearby a car door slammed. They crossed the street in silence. Here the snow was dark and beaten down by strangers' feet. The city had resumed its preoccupied expression. They needed to move faster.

They did, of course. Went in, waited, signed, answered, nodded with knowing looks, offered polite smiles, agreed, thanked. Everything perfectly executed in the world of important things.

They stepped back outside. People rushed by — somewhere to be, something to confirm, nothing to let slip away. All the urgency that had driven them from bed that morning was already behind them: the papers were signed.

But Nina thought: the main thing was not that. It was the crunch of snow underfoot, the butterfly on a sleeve, the children's fortress, the snow, the laughter.

Maybe the world rests not on what is important, but on what is joyful. On those moments that suddenly pull you back into the present, without reason or explanation. Perhaps everything exists not only for gain, for use, for outcome — but simply to be. Perhaps the world exists because it plays. A person too.

March 31, 2026