Christmas is the biggest holiday in numbers - in terms of gross

Host: The shop glowed like a small miracle in the middle of winter. Frost clung to the glass windows, and the faint scent of cocoa, caramel, and warm sugar drifted through the air. Inside, the display cases sparkled with truffles, gold foil, and red ribbons. Christmas music — slow, nostalgic — played softly from a dusty speaker in the corner.

It was late — long after the last customer had gone — but the lights stayed on. Always did.

Jack stood behind the counter, his apron dusted with cocoa powder, hands busy wrapping a box that wasn’t meant for anyone in particular. Across the counter, Jeeny sat on a stool, sipping hot chocolate from a paper cup, her coat still buttoned, cheeks pink from the cold.

Outside, snow fell quietly, each flake catching the light of the streetlamps — the kind of scene that could almost make you believe in peace. Almost.

Jeeny: “You know, most people close early on Christmas Eve.”

Jack: “Most people don’t have bills shaped like skyscrapers.”

Jeeny: “You could’ve fooled me. Looks like business is booming.”

Jack: “Oh, it is. Christmas is a goldmine.”

Jeeny: “Says the man who wraps joy in ribbon and sells it by the ounce.”

Jack: “Jacques Torres said it best — ‘Christmas is the biggest holiday in numbers — in terms of gross amounts — because you have one and a half to two months.’ He wasn’t wrong. You can practically hear the cash registers caroling.”

Jeeny: “That’s depressing.”

Jack: “That’s economics.”

Jeeny: “You ever think about how weird it is that joy has a price tag?”

Jack: “Everything does. Even generosity. Especially generosity.”

Host: The wind howled faintly outside, rattling the door, but inside the air was thick with warmth and scent — chocolate melting, sugar crisping, the perfume of indulgence.

Jeeny: “So what’s it like? Selling happiness for a living?”

Jack: “Exhausting. Everyone wants to buy what can’t be wrapped.”

Jeeny: “Then why do it?”

Jack: “Because they keep paying for the illusion.”

Jeeny: “You sound cynical.”

Jack: “No. Just realistic. People don’t come here for chocolate. They come here for memory — the taste of childhood, of a time when things still felt magical.”

Jeeny: “And you give it to them.”

Jack: “For $24.99 a box.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound dirty.”

Jack: “It’s commerce wrapped in sentiment — the perfect disguise.”

Host: Jeeny watched him work — the careful folding of paper, the deliberate tying of ribbon. Each gesture was mechanical, practiced, but there was something tender in it too.

Jeeny: “You know, you can’t keep talking like that and expect me not to pity you.”

Jack: “Don’t. I love what I do.”

Jeeny: “You just called it a disguise.”

Jack: “So? Every magician loves the trick.”

Jeeny: “That’s what you think you are? A magician?”

Jack: “Kind of. I turn sugar into solace.”

Jeeny: “And how much solace does that buy you?”

Jack: “None. But it keeps the lights on.”

Host: A truck horn blared faintly outside. Somewhere, a church bell tolled midnight. Christmas had officially begun.

Jeeny: “You ever miss what it used to mean?”

Jack: “Christmas?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. When it wasn’t about gross amounts or sales targets.”

Jack: “You mean when it was about love and family?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “That’s the part people outsource now. They buy the idea of it instead of making it.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s sad?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s human. Everyone’s tired, Jeeny. It’s easier to buy the feeling than to build it.”

Jeeny: “And you’re okay with that?”

Jack: “I don’t judge it. I just sweeten it.”

Host: She stood, walking around the counter, and leaned beside him, her hand brushing against a tin of cocoa powder. The smell was rich, nostalgic — the kind that stirs emotion whether you want it or not.

Jeeny: “You know, for a man who’s made his fortune off joy, you sound like someone who doesn’t believe in it anymore.”

Jack: “I believe in moments. They’re just smaller now. Simpler. Like this.”

Jeeny: “Standing in a chocolate shop at midnight?”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “That’s bleak.”

Jack: “That’s honest.”

Jeeny: “You really think happiness can be rationed like sugar?”

Jack: “No. But I think it can be tasted — briefly. That’s enough.”

Host: The radio in the corner crackled, switching to a quieter tune — an old Nat King Cole song, soft and warm like nostalgia itself. The snow outside was heavier now, sticking to the window, turning the street into a painting.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “Dangerous sentence.”

Jeeny: “I think you’re afraid to hope. You’ve built your world around the measurable, the sellable — because it’s safer than believing in what you can’t count.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t pay invoices.”

Jeeny: “No, but it pays attention. That’s worth something too.”

Jack: “You’re poetic when you’re cold.”

Jeeny: “I’m honest when you stop pretending.”

Host: Jack paused, hands frozen mid-wrap, the ribbon dangling loosely between his fingers. He looked up at her, really looked — the kind of look that cracks a shell.

Jack: “You really think I’ve lost it? The meaning?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you buried it under receipts.”

Jack: “So what do I do? Stop selling joy?”

Jeeny: “No. Start feeling it again.”

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then let someone remind you.”

Jack: “You volunteering?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Snow piled higher against the glass. Inside, the chocolate shop was a little universe — warm, lit, alive. Jack reached into the counter, pulled out one of the smaller boxes, tied it neatly, and handed it to her.

Jack: “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “What’s in it?”

Jack: “Just a reminder.”

Jeeny: “Of what?”

Jack: “That even if Christmas is business — joy doesn’t have to be.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them standing behind the counter, laughter just beginning to replace cynicism. The window glowed gold against the snow-dark street.

Host: Because Jacques Torres was right — Christmas is the biggest holiday in numbers.
The economy loves it. The shelves empty. The cash registers sing.

But what the numbers don’t measure
is what happens when the world slows down long enough to share something real —
a story, a taste, a smile, a single act that costs nothing.

Host: And as Jeeny stepped into the snow, the bell over the door jingled — soft, fleeting, genuine.

Behind her, the lights of the little chocolate shop flickered like a heartbeat.

Not of commerce,
but of connection —
the only kind of profit that never melts.