Being a traditionalist, I'm a rabid sucker for Christmas. In

Host: The city was wrapped in cold light, a pale December afternoon that carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts and the hum of early Christmas shoppers. Snowflakes hovered like dust over the gray pavement, melting on black coats and red scarves. A faint carol drifted from a nearby storefront, half cheerful, half haunting.

In a small corner café, the window fogged with breath and steam, Jack sat — his hands clasped around a cup of coffee, his eyes following the blur of passersby. Jeeny sat opposite, a soft smile lingering as she watched the street lights blink like tiny constellations in a dreaming city.

Jack’s coat was open; the cold didn’t seem to touch him. Jeeny’s hands were wrapped in wool gloves, her cheeks slightly flushed, as if she had carried the warmth of the season itself inside her.

Host: The radio behind the counter crackled. John Waters’ voice, or maybe just his spirit, seemed to echo from the static — “Being a traditionalist, I’m a rabid sucker for Christmas. In July, I’m already worried that there are only 146 shopping days left.”

Jeeny laughed, the sound soft but genuine. Jack only smirked, his eyes unmoved.

Jeeny: “You hear that, Jack? Even John Waters — the man who made chaos into art — worries about Christmas like the rest of us. There’s something comforting about that.”

Jack: “Comforting? It’s consumer madness, Jeeny. The whole thing’s a machine. People buy joy like it’s on sale, wrap it in glitter, and pretend they’ve found meaning. Even Waters knew it — he just laughed while the rest of the world sold their souls for a ‘limited edition’ Christmas spirit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe he understood that it’s not about buying — it’s about anticipation. About hope. The waiting, the lights, the ritual — they make people feel human again, even if it’s wrapped in plastic.”

Host: A pause. The steam rose between them like a quiet ghost. Outside, a child dragged a small sled through slush, her mother holding her hand. The bells of a nearby church began to ring, a metallic hymn against the traffic’s roar.

Jack: “Hope? Jeeny, people get hope once a year because an advertisement tells them to. The rest of the time, they live in debt, in silence, in scrolling despair. Christmas is just a bandage for existential dread.”

Jeeny: “You think too little of people, Jack. The lights, the songs, the gatherings — they remind us that we can still feel something pure, even if it’s brief. Even if it’s just once a year. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Pure? There’s nothing pure about Black Friday brawls and sales that start before Thanksgiving dinner’s even cold. Did you see the videos last year? Two grown men fighting over a discounted TV — like wolves over a carcass.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the same night, others were singing carols in hospitals, bringing gifts to the lonely. The same world that fights over TVs also kneels beside the forgotten. You can’t dismiss all of it because some of it’s ugly.”

Host: The lights from the café reflected on their faces — Jack’s angular, drawn in gray shadow, Jeeny’s glowing with soft gold. The waiter passed, refilling their cups, the clink of porcelain cutting through the thickening silence.

Jack leaned forward, his voice lower, more measured.

Jack: “Let me ask you this — do you think John Waters really worried about the shopping days? Or was he mocking us? The way we count days instead of moments, as if life is just another list to check off.”

Jeeny: “I think he was mocking himself, too. That’s what made him brilliant. He loved the absurdity of tradition, but he also saw its beauty. You can laugh at something and still love it. Isn’t that what being human is?”

Jack: “Maybe for you. I’ve seen too many people use that kind of love to escape from their own emptiness. They call it tradition — I call it distraction.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with distraction, Jack? The world burns all year — war, politics, inequality, death — maybe distraction is the only thing keeping people from collapsing. Even the ancient Romans had Saturnalia — a week of chaos to forget their pain.”

Jack: “Exactly. Bread and circuses. Keep them entertained, and they won’t revolt. You just proved my point.”

Jeeny: “No. I proved that we’ve always needed ritual to survive our own truth. You think rituals are cages. I think they’re mirrors — showing us what we miss in the noise.”

Host: The temperature in the café seemed to shift, the air denser with words unsaid. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes shone with the faint glimmer of restrained anger.

Jeeny: “You hide behind cynicism because it’s easier than hope.”

Jack: “And you hide behind sentiment because it’s prettier than pain.”

Jeeny: “Pain is what gives sentiment its weight. You think I don’t see the emptiness you talk about? I do. But when a mother buys her child a gift, even if it’s cheap, even if it’s borrowed money — that’s love, Jack. That’s the only economy that matters.”

Jack: “Tell that to the factory worker in Bangladesh stitching that toy for fourteen hours a day. Love doesn’t reach that far.”

Jeeny: “But maybe it can. If people remembered what Christmas really meant — giving, not consuming — maybe that worker wouldn’t have to. Maybe compassion could travel as far as profit.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, heavy as the scent of cinnamon and old coffee. Jack looked down, tracing the rim of his cup with a finger. His reflection shimmered in the dark liquid, fractured and trembling.

Jack: “You still believe people can change.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially when they remember something bigger than themselves.”

Jack: “And you think Christmas does that?”

Jeeny: “Not Christmas itself. The way people want to be during Christmas. Kinder. Softer. For one season, they try. Isn’t that something worth holding onto?”

Jack: “Maybe for you. But for me, it’s like watching a dream that dies on January first.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the dream’s not supposed to last — maybe it’s just supposed to remind us that we’re capable of dreaming.”

Host: A moment passed where neither spoke. Outside, a streetlight flickered. The snow thickened. The world looked like it was holding its breath.

Jeeny leaned closer, her voice almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “You know, my father used to start decorating in July. He said it gave him something to look forward to. He’d play old carols on a broken radio. It wasn’t about shopping — it was about remembering joy before life could take it away.”

Jack: “And did it work?”

Jeeny: “For him, yes. For me too. It made the year bearable.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s all any of us are doing — trying to make the unbearable bearable.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why even cynics like you still show up in December, pretending you hate it but secretly hoping it’ll feel different this time.”

Host: Jack laughed, a rare, rough sound that cracked the tension. Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft again. The waiter passed by, humming “Silent Night.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not the shopping I hate — it’s the fear that I’ve forgotten how to feel what they’re all chasing.”

Jeeny: “Then start there. Feel the absurdity, feel the joy, feel the loss. That’s all Christmas ever asked of us.”

Jack: “And what if it’s too late for me?”

Jeeny: “Then let the lights remind you you’re still alive.”

Host: Outside, the snow began to fall heavier, thick and silent. The street glowed under its pale weight, every sound softened, every face blurred into something gentle. Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet, their cups empty, their hearts half-full.

In the reflection of the window, their faces looked almost like two strangers caught in the same dream — one built from doubt, the other from faith — yet both watching the same snow fall, the same light flicker.

Host: And somewhere in the distance, a faint song rose from the streets — not quite in tune, not quite beautiful, but human.

For that moment, even Jack seemed to listen.

The camera lingers on the window, the snow, the soft glow of Christmas lights — and fades to black.