I kind of have a uniform for office parties and Christmas

Host: The city shimmered in December light — that cool, silvery glow that made everything look more expensive than it really was. The streets buzzed with pre-holiday exhaustion: horns, laughter, and the faint sound of a saxophone playing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” somewhere on Fifth Avenue.

Inside a sleek, glass-walled corporate tower, the annual office Christmas party was in full swing. Strings of gold lights hung from the ceiling, the champagne flowed too easily, and laughter — brittle, bright, and performative — filled the air like perfume.

Jack stood near the bar, dressed immaculately in a tweed jacket, black tie, and velvet loafers that caught the light like mischief. His pocket square — deep, unapologetic red — looked almost defiant. He held a glass of bourbon but wasn’t drinking it.

Jeeny appeared beside him, her presence quiet but sharp, her black dress simple, elegant — the kind of beauty that doesn’t announce itself but takes over a room by existing.

Jeeny: (smiling) “You clean up well, Jack.”

Jack: (without looking at her) “Michael Bastian said, ‘I kind of have a uniform for office parties and Christmas parties. What I do is put on a basic tuxedo shirt with a solid navy or black tie, a tweed jacket, a red pocket square, and some sort of fancy shoe or velvet slipper.’ I figured I’d test his theory.”

Jeeny: “You do realize he meant fashion theory, not philosophy, right?”

Jack: “Fashion is philosophy. The body’s way of pretending it’s in control of the soul.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “And the red pocket square? Is that rebellion or insecurity?”

Jack: “Both. Isn’t that what holidays are for?”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, the sound cutting clean through the room’s dull chatter. Behind them, the office crowd performed its annual ritual — colleagues pretending to like each other just long enough for HR to call it “team bonding.”

Jeeny: “You look like a man dressed for an occasion he doesn’t want to be at.”

Jack: “You’re perceptive.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe just used to seeing people wear armor disguised as clothes.”

Jack: “Armor works better when it’s tailored.”

Jeeny: “Still armor.”

Host: The music shifted — a Sinatra track now, something nostalgic, lazy, the kind that makes people forget how tired they are of pretending to be merry. Jack’s eyes followed the dance floor where managers swayed stiffly beside interns, their smiles slipping whenever the camera turned away.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder why people dress up to be seen when all they really want is to disappear?”

Jack: “Because invisibility doesn’t get compliments.”

Jeeny: “Or because vulnerability doesn’t get promotions.”

Jack: “Touché.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink for someone, the amber liquid catching the reflection of Christmas lights. Jeeny leaned on the counter, studying the bubbles in her champagne like constellations.

Jeeny: “You always have a costume for every kind of night, don’t you? For boardrooms, funerals, parties… even heartbreak.”

Jack: “Consistency is underrated.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s exhausting.”

Jack: “You’d prefer chaos?”

Jeeny: “I’d prefer truth. Even if it’s badly dressed.”

Host: Her words hit him like the faint sting of cold air sneaking through the glass doors. He looked at her — really looked — the curve of her expression, the spark of challenge in her eyes. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

Jack: “You think this is fake?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s curated. Which is worse.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who hates masks but loves theatre.”

Jeeny: “I love theatre because at least the actors admit they’re pretending.”

Host: A silence stretched between them — not hostile, but charged. The kind that hummed with recognition. Around them, the crowd had grown louder, the music brighter, as if the world was working harder to drown out its own hollowness.

Jack: “You ever notice how parties like this feel like funerals disguised as celebrations?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The death of authenticity, catered and photographed.”

Jack: “So why’d you come?”

Jeeny: “To remind you there’s still someone here not buying the show.”

Jack: (half-smile) “I should’ve known the only person dressed in truth tonight would be you.”

Host: A moment passed. The sound of laughter rose from the corner — a young analyst wearing antlers was attempting karaoke. It was painful, but genuine. The kind of ridiculousness that proves there’s still something innocent left in the machinery.

Jeeny: “See that?” (gesturing) “That’s honesty. Bad singing, cheap beer, and no shame.”

Jack: “Honesty looks a lot like foolishness from here.”

Jeeny: “So does courage.”

Host: Jack said nothing. His hand went to his pocket square — the splash of red like a beating heart against his chest.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny: “You wear it like a flag.”

Jack: “It’s supposed to be festive.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s defiant. You always wear color when you’re sad.”

Jack: “Maybe color’s the only protest left.”

Host: The music shifted again — something slower now, older. Sinatra gave way to silence between verses. People began to leave in clusters, coats over arms, goodbyes rehearsed. The party was ending, but the night outside was still awake.

Jeeny: “Do you remember your first office party?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “I remember thinking if I wore the right suit, I could belong.”

Jeeny: “Did you?”

Jack: “No. But everyone else thought I did.”

Jeeny: “So you learned to look like success.”

Jack: “Isn’t that what everyone does?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the cost is forgetting what you actually want.”

Jack: “And what if what I want is peace?”

Jeeny: “Then stop dressing for war.”

Host: Jack’s eyes fell to his velvet shoes — ridiculous, expensive, unnecessary. The kind of choice that made people believe he was comfortable in his skin.

He wasn’t.

Jack: “You ever think maybe fashion is just fear stitched together?”

Jeeny: “Or hope. A kind of self-portrait painted with fabric. People dress like who they wish they could be.”

Jack: “And you? Who do you wish to be?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Someone who doesn’t need a costume to feel real.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air like perfume — subtle, lasting. Jack looked at her, really seeing her — no embellishment, no artifice. Just presence.

And for a moment, the party disappeared — the lights, the chatter, the façade.

Just two people beneath the hum of the city, dressed in silence and honesty.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, Bastian wasn’t wrong. A uniform isn’t bad. It gives you structure. But it can also become a cage.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m afraid of what happens if I take it off.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly what you need to do.”

Jack: “Here? In front of them?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. In front of yourself.”

Host: The last guests were leaving. The lights dimmed, the bartender cleaned the counter, and the world resumed its quiet rhythm. Jack pulled his red pocket square from his jacket and placed it on the bar — a small, bright surrender.

Jeeny smiled.

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s a start. Every truth begins with taking something off.”

Host: Outside, the city shimmered — reflections of light on glass, reflections of people pretending and becoming. Jack and Jeeny stepped into the cold, the air crisp with honesty.

Jack’s tie was loosened now, his coat open. The pocket square — left behind.

The night didn’t judge. It just held them — unmasked, imperfect, free.

Because as Michael Bastian said — and as they both finally understood —

Style can hide the soul.
But courage is the moment you let it breathe.