Not sure what this is other than to say that it's hopefully in the spirit of all good Christmas tales. Set a few months after 10.6.
The weary sun rises, weak and low on the horizon, its tired fingers stretching slowly across the window. The first rays break through the glass, creeping forward across the wooden floor of the living room… 'lounge' perhaps would be a better word, 'living' is something the room, nor even the house has seen little of, not in the past and most certainly not in recent weeks.
The light's reach falls upon a pair of black, shiny shoes and rises up the sharp creases of a dark suit, finally spreading over the prone figure of a man slumped in a chair. A chink of sunlight catches the cut glass cradled in his hand and suddenly the amber liquid within is illuminated like burning gold.
The vague warmth, magnified by the glass from the window tries to breathe life into him, tries to encourage him to come back to the land of the living. He moans quietly and his eyes begin to flutter awake. The glare of the light blinds him and he screws closed his eyes.
Another night asleep in the chair, another night with a bottle as company, another night when he wishes it could have been him.
He sighs, knowing the world is the same today as it was yesterday and will be again tomorrow. Same and no better.
"Were we so undeserving?" he says wearily, "Couldn't you have just given us some time together … something?" he asks of whichever deity might possibly be listening.
But he knows none is. And he knows the answer anyway.
"Of course, you couldn't. Give and take ... mainly take. As soon as we got close you took. Always."
He gets up, stiff and aching. The world no kinder today than any other day, possibly more colourful, more tinsel clad, though not in his house, but certainly no more sparing to his feelings.
He is about to put down the glass when he thinks better of it and instead raises it before him in a toast to the unseen.
"Thanks," he says bitterly, "…for nothing." And then he drains the liquid and goes to work.
Erin hands him a Christmas card. He thanks her and watches her hesitate a moment before walking away to the door. It slides closed behind her. He puts the card unopened into his drawer with the others. Erin reappears.
"Harry… about Christmas …would you like to ….?"
He cuts her off quickly.
"I'm going to my daughter's."
"Oh, right," she says, uncertain she believes him.
"But thanks for the offer."
He smiles and she turns away.
It is not a total untruth. Catherine had asked. But he isn't worthy company for anyone. The only Christmas spirit he is feeling comes out of a bottle.
At nine o'clock he is still there, looking out now at an empty grid, no desk lights burning in the darkness, no solitary figure watching him from across the floor, no warm smile, no blue eyes.
He stands and tugs on his coat. Time to go.
He walks up the path to the house. He has left a light on. In a way it makes the welcome warmer.
It's just a light.
He takes off his coat greeted by the warmth.
He begins to tug the tie from his neck and feels instead the pull of the bottle calling to him. The same glass from that morning sits conveniently close to the single malt and he replenishes it.
"You're drinking too much," he mutters to himself.
"So no change there then."
He spins around.
His breath is ragged.
"Are you okay, Harry?" she asks.
He wants to reach out for support but he dare not move and so he freezes hoping the world will do likewise.
He refuses to let his tired, sore eyes blink for fear she will not be there when they reopen.
And in the end he manages only one quiet, desperate, doubting word.
"Ruth….."