Will liked that the park was neglected, and inconvenient for anyone who knew him. The few visitors were strays, like the woman on the bench a buckeye tree over, closer to the gate. For several weeks she had arrived on Fridays, at noon, in a tatty coat and hat, sat a half-hour or so looking expectant, then dallied out, alone. He was intrigued.

On this particular Friday, Will drained his flask as the snow stuck to his bench and covered the newspaper headline about Teddy Roosevelt awarded a peace prize. He was startled when the woman jumped up and strode past, straight and light, so quick that he caught only a glimpse of her face. It was alive with joy. Her hat flew to the ground, letting chestnut hair loose to cascade about her as she reached a man at the gate. Will visited a time that no longer existed, and lifted the flask to his lips. But there was nothing left to medicate him. The couple hugged with a quiet intensity. The man stroked the woman’s hair––a gentle gesture, as though it was fragile.

Will lumbered over snow-thickened sidewalks to Healy’s Tavern. Black paint darkened the place inside and out. Cigar smoke claimed it a man’s bar. “There you are,” the bartender with the craggy grin said. “Paper sent that illustrator again. Told ’em you’d be in about now.”

Will was settled into his booth when the illustrator arrived and plunged onto a seat across from him. “The boss is going to fire me if I don’t have an illustration for page four and the illustration better be for a story on page four.” The illustrator pounded the table that held Will’s drink. “I have a wife with a kid on the way. I need this job.”

Will tried to recall the illustrator’s name, but came up empty. He was a responsible young man. They had little in common. Will told him to come back for the story in an hour. “Draw a man and a woman in a shabby flat,” he said. “Make the woman pretty, with hair flowing down to her waist.” The illustrator looked at his pocket watch and agreed.

Will stared at the glass of amber liquid. He felt the deadline pressing down on him as he took out his notebook and pen. He was still writing when the illustrator returned and slid a drawing in front of him.

Will gazed at the illustration. “She’s prettier than that, worthy of a sonnet,” he said.

The illustrator skimmed Will’s story through his small, round spectacles, and shrugged. “It’s not entirely even. Her hair will grow back,” he said. The illustrator was about to run it to the newspaper office when he noticed there was no title.

Will scribbled another paragraph, and then titled the story, “Gift of the Magi.” He shoved it back. “Who cares,” he said. “It’s only good for tomorrow’s fish wrap.”