I like to spend Christmas with family and friends, pigging out

Host: The evening snow fell in lazy spirals, each flake glittering under the faint light of the streetlamps. Inside the apartment, the fireplace crackled, painting the walls with flickers of gold and amber. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, cinnamon, and something deeper — the quiet warmth of people who had known each other long enough to sit in silence without discomfort.

Jack sat on the couch, legs stretched out, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His grey eyes caught the firelight, reflective and distant. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by torn wrapping paper, a stray bow stuck in her long black hair. The soft murmur of an old Christmas song played from the radio — the kind that carried nostalgia like perfume.

Outside, the city was hushed. Inside, it was the kind of stillness that makes you notice how alive you are.

Jeeny: “You know what George Kotsiopoulos once said? ‘I like to spend Christmas with family and friends, pigging out, exchanging gifts and basically doing nothing.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “A man after my own heart. Finally, someone who gets it — Christmas without philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Without philosophy? You’re the last person I’d expect to say that.”

Jack: “Why not? For once, it’s nice to stop thinking. To just eat, drink, and do nothing without guilt. Isn’t that the whole point of holidays? A temporary escape from meaning?”

Jeeny: “Escape? Or maybe return. You see it as a break from thinking. I see it as remembering what matters — people, laughter, small joys. The things that get buried under our endless pursuit of purpose.”

Host: The firelight danced across her face, softening her words, giving them a kind of gentle gravity. Jack’s smile faltered for a moment, caught between amusement and thought.

Jack: “You always turn simple things into sermons, Jeeny. Can’t Christmas just be… Christmas? Without hidden meaning, without some moral?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s hidden meaning. I think it’s human meaning. You spend a year building, working, rushing — and then, for one day, the world stops demanding. You eat too much, laugh too loudly, fall asleep on the couch — and somehow, that feels sacred.”

Jack: “Sacred? That’s a big word for stuffing yourself with turkey.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the food, Jack. It’s the togetherness. The permission to simply exist with others. We don’t do that often enough. We define ourselves by doing, by producing — but on Christmas, we remember how to just be.”

Host: The sound of laughter echoed faintly from the apartment next door. Somewhere, a child’s giggle mixed with the distant ringing of a church bell. The moment carried a tenderness that neither of them could fully name.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But honestly, I think it’s indulgence disguised as nostalgia. People eat too much, spend too much, and call it joy.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with indulgence once in a while? We live so tightly wound — measuring calories, counting hours, chasing goals. Maybe we need a day to remember pleasure without punishment.”

Jack: “That sounds like justification.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Maybe it is. But maybe joy needs a little justification in this world.”

Host: Jack leaned back, watching the fire crackle, the shadows dance on the walls. He looked at Jeeny — the way her eyes glowed with warmth, the way she held her cup like it contained the entire winter’s comfort. Something about the simplicity of the moment unsettled him, as if happiness, too, demanded courage.

Jack: “When I was a kid, Christmas felt like a movie. The tree, the lights, my mother’s pie — all of it. But as you get older, it feels… smaller. Like it shrinks while you grow.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not because Christmas changes, Jack. Maybe you did. You traded wonder for logic. You started looking for reasons where you used to feel magic.”

Jack: “Magic is for children.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s for survivors. People who still dare to believe that comfort can exist in a cruel world.”

Host: The flames shifted, throwing sudden light onto Jack’s face, revealing the faint tremor in his jaw — the kind that comes from remembering something long buried. He looked down at his drink.

Jack: “I remember one Christmas after my dad died. My mother tried to act like nothing had changed. Same songs, same food, same tree. But everything felt… hollow. Like we were pretending. I guess that’s when I stopped believing in the holiday.”

Jeeny: quietly “Maybe she wasn’t pretending. Maybe she was fighting. Holding the ritual together because if she stopped, everything else would collapse.”

Jack: “You think holding onto illusion is strength?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes rituals are what keep us sane. You eat the food, wrap the gifts, tell the same stories — not because they mean nothing, but because they mean everything. They remind you that life continues, even after loss.”

Host: The room went still. The fire dimmed slightly, a slow sigh of orange light against the cold glass of the window. Outside, snow gathered on the ledge, soft and steady.

Jack: “You’re saying Christmas is a kind of rebellion?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Against despair. Against indifference. It’s saying, ‘I’m still here. I can still give. I can still love.’”

Jack: “So when George Kotsiopoulos says he likes to do nothing, you think he’s secretly doing everything?”

Jeeny: “Yes — everything that matters. Sharing food, laughter, presence. Doing nothing together is the most human act of all.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You’ve managed to turn laziness into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Not laziness — rest. There’s a difference. One numbs, the other heals.”

Host: The fire hissed softly, a small spark leaping into the air like a punctuation mark at the end of her sentence. Jack exhaled, the tension in his shoulders melting into the warm air.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, not every battle needs to be fought. Not every hour needs to be earned. Sometimes, the bravest thing is to stop, share a meal, and let yourself be loved.”

Jack: “That sounds dangerously sentimental.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t sentiment what makes us human?”

Jack: “You’re right. The world trains us to be efficient — Christmas reminds us to be enough.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The radio played a low, nostalgic tune — Bing Crosby’s voice like a memory wrapped in velvet. Jack stood, stretched, then reached for a small, unevenly wrapped box hidden behind the lamp.

Jack: “I didn’t plan to give this to you. It’s nothing fancy.”

Jeeny: smiling “Then it’s perfect.”

Host: She opened it carefully — a small ornament, hand-painted, slightly chipped, but beautiful in its imperfection. A snowflake made of wood, with faint pencil markings still visible beneath the paint.

Jeeny: “Did you make this?”

Jack: “Years ago. I found it in a box when I moved apartments. I thought maybe it could live again.”

Jeeny: softly “See? You still believe in Christmas.”

Jack: laughing “Or maybe you just tricked me into it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s what friends are for.”

Host: The firelight glowed brighter, reflected in the glass ornament like a tiny sun captured in ice. The two sat quietly, the room filled with the gentle hum of warmth, the faint scent of pine, and the kind of peace that doesn’t need words.

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and endless, covering the world in forgiveness.

And inside, surrounded by laughter, remnants of wrapping paper, and the soft pulse of the fire, doing nothing had never felt so full.