A lot of sequins for New Year's! Red, green, white - I fail at

Host: The boutique was closing for the night. Outside, the city hummed under December’s chill — strings of lights flickering across shopfronts, the faint echo of a street performer singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” somewhere in the square.

Inside, the last of the customers had gone, leaving only the scent of perfume, the shimmer of fabric, and the quiet crackle of the heater. Racks of sequined dresses, scarves, and boots stood like frozen laughter — silent witnesses to all the transformations people tried on before parties, hoping to shine for just one night.

Jack leaned against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand, staring at the glittering mannequins like they were from another planet. Jeeny stood near the mirror, holding up a black dress against herself — simple, elegant, unassuming.

She smiled softly, her voice playful but edged with reflection as she quoted:

“A lot of sequins for New Year’s! Red, green, white — I fail at all of that because I’m always in black. But for Christmas, I do love wearing cute dresses with tights and a pair of boots.” — Ashley Benson.

Jack laughed — that low, familiar, ironic laugh that filled empty rooms like smoke.

Jack: “Black, huh? Of course you’d side with her. The color of rebels, poets, and people allergic to sparkle.”

Jeeny: smiling “It’s not rebellion, Jack. It’s comfort. Sequins scream for attention — black listens.”

Host: The lamps cast warm gold light across the floor, reflecting off the sequined fabrics in bursts of temporary galaxies. Jack sipped his coffee, watching her in the mirror.

Jack: “You talk like color has a soul.”

Jeeny: “It does. Red is passion, green is envy, white is illusion. But black—”

Jack: “—is truth?”

Jeeny: “No. Black is silence. It’s the pause before emotion.”

Jack: “And you prefer pauses to celebrations.”

Jeeny: “I prefer honesty to performance.”

Host: A faint snow had begun outside, the kind that falls without hurry, more memory than weather. It caught in the window glass like small ghosts of winter trying to get in.

Jeeny set the dress down on the counter and began folding scarves — silver, red, emerald — the colors of people who still believed every party could rewrite their year.

Jack watched her hands move, slow and certain.

Jack: “You ever notice how the holidays turn everyone into actors? Everyone smiling louder, dressing brighter, laughing like they’ve rehearsed it all year.”

Jeeny: “It’s not acting, Jack. It’s hope. Some people need the illusion to feel whole again.”

Jack: “You sound like you approve.”

Jeeny: “I do. It’s a beautiful kind of pretending — the kind that keeps the dark from swallowing the year completely.”

Jack: “So you wear black to balance it out?”

Jeeny: grinning “Someone has to remind the light where it came from.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked toward closing — 9:53 p.m. The music on the speakers switched to something softer: Norah Jones murmuring about heartbreak and snowflakes.

Jack walked over to the display window and looked out — people passing by, wrapped in scarves and laughter, carrying paper bags full of temporary joy.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always hated New Year’s parties. Everyone counting down like the next second will make them new.”

Jeeny: “It’s ritual. We all crave moments that promise a reset.”

Jack: “Doesn’t work, though.”

Jeeny: “No. But for a minute, people believe it does. And that’s something.”

Jack: “You sound like you envy that kind of hope.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I do. I envy people who can still sparkle without irony.”

Jack: “You could. You just won’t.”

Jeeny: smirking “I’d rather glow than glitter.”

Host: The lights dimmed automatically, leaving the boutique in soft shadow. The sequins still caught what little light remained, shimmering faintly — like forgotten dreams refusing to die.

Jeeny sat on one of the stools, pulling on her boots. Jack sat opposite her, elbows on his knees, coffee gone cold.

Jack: “You know, I get what Benson meant. People think fashion’s superficial — but sometimes it’s survival. You dress for the mood you can’t control.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Clothes are memory. A shield. A story you tell before words.”

Jack: “And what story does black tell?”

Jeeny: “It says: I’ve seen the world, and I still choose understatement.”

Jack: “That’s poetic.”

Jeeny: “It’s pragmatic. Sequins fade. Black stays.”

Jack: “You sound like an old soul trapped in a color palette.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. But you can’t deny there’s power in simplicity.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door. Outside, a group of friends passed by — laughing, their clothes bursting with reds and silvers, like fireworks before midnight. Their voices trailed off into the cold.

Jeeny watched them through the glass — not envious, not detached. Just present.

Jeeny: “I used to wear red once. Thought it made me noticeable. But I realized the only people worth noticing you see even when you’re in black.”

Jack: “So you don’t dress to be seen.”

Jeeny: “I dress to feel grounded. Color is loud. Black whispers, and I like to hear myself think.”

Jack: “And yet for Christmas you soften — ‘cute dresses with tights and boots,’ huh?”

Jeeny: laughing “Because softness is rebellion too. The world expects hardness now. Sometimes joy is the only counterargument.”

Jack: “Joy in a dress.”

Jeeny: “Joy in permission — to be unguarded for one night.”

Host: The snow thickened outside, the world turning slowly white — as if trying to start over. Jeeny slipped on her coat, pulling the collar close. Jack turned off the last of the lights, the boutique sinking into that golden afterglow of endings.

At the door, Jeeny looked back once, at the racks of sequins glimmering faintly in the dark.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t hate the sparkle. It just doesn’t belong to me. But I like that it exists — for people who still believe in shining.”

Jack: “And what do you believe in?”

Jeeny: softly “In presence. In the quiet beauty of showing up as yourself — no glitter required.”

Jack: “You make black sound holy.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s every color swallowed whole and still choosing peace.”

Host: The camera would pull back as they stepped out into the snowy night — Jack lighting a cigarette, Jeeny pulling her hat low.

Behind them, the darkened window reflected two figures framed by winter and light — her coat black, his breath visible in the cold. The sequins in the display shimmered faintly behind them, like stars remembering what warmth felt like.

And as they walked down the quiet street, their footsteps the only sound, Jeeny’s words hung in the air like soft rebellion:

that not every light needs to shine loudly to be seen,
and that sometimes, in a world obsessed with glitter —
black is the color of peace.