Christmas is over and Business is Business.

Host: The morning light cut cold and sharp through the windows of the downtown café, spilling across the scuffed linoleum floor like a truth nobody wanted to hear. The tinsel still hung in the corners — sagging, gray with dust now — and the little fake tree by the counter leaned to one side, its ornaments dangling like forgotten promises.

Outside, the city had returned to its rhythm: cars honking, boots on wet pavement, shop doors opening with tired bells. The joy of yesterday had already been packed back into boxes.

At a small table near the window sat Jack, his overcoat still damp from the drizzle, his coffee going cold. Across from him, Jeeny stirred sugar into her cup with slow precision — the kind of motion people use when they’re trying not to say something too soon.

Jeeny: “Franklin Pierce Adams once said, ‘Christmas is over and Business is Business.’”

Jack: (smirking) “That might be the truest line ever written about January.”

Jeeny: “You mean the hangover of humanity?”

Jack: “Exactly. The decorations come down, and suddenly the warmth evaporates. One day you’re singing carols, and the next you’re checking your email.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant, isn’t it? The way sentiment gets scheduled — the way compassion is seasonal.”

Jack: “Yeah. The world trades grace for efficiency the minute the calendar turns.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, letting in a gust of cold air and the scent of wet asphalt. A man in a suit hurried in, shaking off his umbrella, barking something into his phone. The sound of the espresso machine hissed behind the counter, filling the silence between their thoughts.

Jack: “It’s funny. For a few weeks, people actually try — you know? They smile at strangers, tip better, call their families. Then January hits, and it’s back to invoices, to deadlines, to competition.”

Jeeny: “Because generosity is easy when it’s decorated.”

Jack: “You mean when it comes with carols and cookies.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But when the lights come down, people remember the cost of being kind.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes on the window — where a delivery truck rumbled by, its sides plastered with the logo of a toy company that had just made its best quarter of the year.

Jeeny: “You know, Adams wasn’t cynical. He was observant. He saw that Christmas spirit is rented, not owned.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s like the world plays make-believe for a month — pretending we’re better than we are.”

Jeeny: “But the pretending matters. Even if it’s temporary.”

Jack: “How? Isn’t that hypocrisy?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even pretending to be good keeps the idea of goodness alive. That’s the paradox — seasonal virtue still teaches permanence by contrast.”

Host: Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, eyes weary but thoughtful. The rain outside had slowed to a soft drizzle, streaking down the window like quiet resignation.

Jack: “So, you’re saying the death of Christmas spirit is part of its purpose?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when it fades, we notice what’s missing. And maybe that ache, that absence — that’s the lesson.”

Jack: “Like the silence after music. The echo is the real message.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Business resumes, but the echo lingers.”

Host: A clock on the café wall ticked loudly, measuring time with indifferent precision. The barista removed a small wreath from above the counter and tossed it into a cardboard box marked Seasonal Décor.

Jack: “Still, I can’t help feeling there’s something tragic about how fast we forget. Yesterday, people were talking about peace, about kindness, about love. Today, it’s margins and memos.”

Jeeny: “Because ideals are heavy, Jack. People can only hold them so long before they start dropping things that pay the rent.”

Jack: “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We only afford morality when it’s convenient.”

Jeeny: “Or when it’s collective. No one wants to be the only one still singing carols in January.”

Host: The faint sound of a Christmas song leaked from a forgotten radio behind the counter — ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ — until someone noticed and turned it off mid-lyric.

Jeeny: “There it is — the perfect metaphor. We silence joy the moment it no longer fits the mood of the market.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really think Adams meant all that?”

Jeeny: “He was a satirist. He used brevity like a blade. ‘Christmas is over and Business is Business’ — it’s not just about holidays. It’s about how quickly we trade wonder for routine.”

Jack: “How we treat the sacred like a seasonal sale.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s about capitalism’s great trick — making generosity temporary and profit eternal.”

Host: A couple nearby folded up their newspapers and left, their chairs scraping against the floor. The door closed behind them, and for a moment, the café was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft drizzle outside.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I wish we could freeze that moment — the one right before Christmas ends. When people still believe in something a little bigger than themselves.”

Jeeny: “You can. But you have to fight to keep it alive. The world won’t do it for you.”

Jack: “Because business is business.”

Jeeny: “And love is labor.”

Host: Her words settled like dust in the air — soft, true, impossible to sweep away. Jack looked down at his cup, the coffee now cold, and smiled — not out of joy, but recognition.

Jeeny: “You know what the irony is? Adams wasn’t condemning business — he was humanizing it. He was saying, we built this system, and it built us back. We can’t separate what we do from who we are. If business lacks mercy, it’s because we forgot how to carry Christmas into our work.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the real challenge isn’t to celebrate better — it’s to stop needing holidays to remind us how to be decent.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To turn sentiment into structure.”

Host: The rain stopped. Outside, the wet pavement shimmered beneath the gray daylight — ordinary again. A man walked by, tossing his empty coffee cup into a trash bin without looking. Life had resumed, unceremonious and unstoppable.

And in that small, quiet café, Franklin Pierce Adams’ words still echoed like a sigh beneath the sound of traffic:

That business always resumes —
because the world cannot live on ideals alone.

That Christmas, for all its warmth,
is only as real as the mercy we carry past December.

That the true measure of a heart
is not how it glows under the lights,
but how it behaves when the lights are taken down.

Host: The barista flipped the sign on the door to Open.
Jeeny buttoned her coat. Jack stood, tossing a few bills on the table.

And as they stepped out into the gray,
the city’s hum swallowed them —
indifferent, endless,
alive once more with people who had loved briefly,
believed briefly,
and now returned to business.