[ WP ] A man is sitting on a park bench at night . There 's half a foot of snow on the ground and more snow falling . Only his footprints are in the snow . As he stares across the park he hears approaching footsteps in the snow but he does n't turn around . Someone taps him on his shoulder .

'What the hell am I doing out here?' he wonders idly to himself. 
 
 He pulls his coat closer, forces himself not to hunch over, and trudges on through the snow and the dark. It's falling softly now, not nearly as heavy as it had been; the ground is stuffed to bursting, but still managing every morsel of precipitation. 
 
'Christmas Eve' he thinks,' how did it come to this?' 
 
 He never used to work Christmas Eve, she would n't have liked it. While the boys in the office sometimes ribbed him for it, ( *you're whipped more than an Indiana Jones movie! * ) he did n't mind. They'd always been good about letting him bagsy the day, as long as he made himself available on the other days of the season. 
 
 Christmas Eve had always been their holiday, a day when'someone else can walk about and scrape up drunks', the day they spent together. 
 
 The last one had been 3 years ago. It had been a beautiful day, frosty and clear. They'd walked for miles, red noses peeping from woollen scarves, dodging scampering dogs and children with boundless energy. They'd never been able to have children, despite years of trying. It was his one large regret, that he had been unable to allow her that pleasure, but that wound was old and scarred; an anomalous blemish on his happy marriage. They'd soldiered on regardless, taking pleasure in visiting friends and watching others grow. It was n't much, but it was their happiness. 
 
 He sighs as he remembers, walking with the woman he loved, not walking in the streets alone, scraping up drunks. She had died the following summer, when cancer had stolen her twilight life. The sigh clings to the cold air and floats upwards, fading, into memory. 
 
 He walks along a bit further, listening for the steady hiss of his radio, and feeling the gentle weight of his equipment. There is nobody out here, it is too cold and too desolate a park for that; the shoppers and revellers are elsewhere. He'll walk around once more, then head back to the station. 
 
 He finishes in a few minutes, and he already has his evening planned. The same evening he's had for the past 2 years. He'll sit on his sofa, their sofa, and toast a woman beautiful and kind, wise and gracious. He'll toast her, get slightly drunk, and watch Elf; she'd always loved that movie. It was n't much of a remembrance party, but it was theirs. 
 
 He spots the figure now, sitting alone on a bench behind some trees, light from a nearby streetlight barely reaching. The figure is silent, and the soft patter of snowfall accompanies the crunch of boots as he plods over to investigate. It was never too late in a shift to scrape up a drunk. 
 
 He reaches the man and sees him. Slightly balding and in his mid-forties, he stares vacantly ahead, a bottle of whisky sat beside him. Dried tears stain his face, and his chin is marred with fresh growth. He does n't smell, except of alcohol, so he probably is n't sleeping rough. He has know idea how long he's been there, the fresh snow against his leg could be from 5 hours or 5 minutes. 
 
 Bench creaking softly he sits down beside the man, who glances across at the newcomer. The drunk man speaks, slightly too loudly: 
 
' I miss them ya know, it's hard. I ca n't believe she took them, took my kids.' 
 
 The policeman looks back, ignores the cold crawling up his back, and they begin to talk. 
 
 The toast could wait until later.
