I remember, for my birthday once, we all dressed up as Spice

Host: The bar was half-lit, half-forgotten — one of those small, nostalgic corners of the city where old songs still played like memories that refused to fade. The walls were lined with worn vinyl covers — Bowie, Madonna, Nirvana — ghosts of music that had shaped a thousand youths.
Outside, the rain fell in a soft, rhythmic pattern, while inside, the air was thick with laughter, low music, and the faint scent of whiskey and time.

Jack sat at the counter, a beer untouched in front of him. His grey eyes held that same quiet distance, the look of a man observing rather than belonging.
Jeeny walked in, her coat dripping from the rain, her hair slightly undone, carrying the same defiant kind of grace you’d expect from someone who danced with life instead of walking through it.

Jeeny: (grinning as she hung her coat) “You know, Hannah John-Kamen once said, ‘I remember, for my birthday once, we all dressed up as Spice Girls. I was Scary.’”

(She laughs, the sound bright in the dimness.) “Isn’t that beautiful, Jack? To remember who you pretended to be — and realize that maybe, just maybe, a part of her stayed inside you?”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Beautiful? I’d call it ridiculous. Dressing up as pop stars doesn’t make you them. Childhood fantasies — that’s all they are.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink, the liquid catching the faint light, swirling gold and amber. Somewhere in the back, a jukebox hummed softly, its old speaker crackling with a distant ‘Wannabe.’

Jeeny: (smiling knowingly) “You’re missing the point, Jack. It’s not about the costume — it’s about who you were when you wore it. The freedom. The fearlessness. The joy of pretending without the weight of judgment.”

Jack: “Pretending doesn’t make you free. It makes you delusional. That’s why people get stuck chasing who they used to be. They hide behind the memory instead of growing out of it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe pretending is the first step toward becoming. Every artist, every dreamer starts that way — pretending to be someone braver, louder, freer until one day, they actually are.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, each drop hitting the window like a soft percussion beat. The light inside flickered — like it was breathing along with their words. Jack took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers.

Jack: “So what — you think dressing up as the Spice Girls is a metaphor for self-discovery?”

Jeeny: (grinning, leaning in) “Why not? The Spice Girls weren’t just pop stars — they were symbols of identity. Posh, Scary, Sporty, Baby, Ginger. Every girl — every boy — found a reflection of who they wanted to be. They taught a generation that identity could be chosen, performed, remixed.”

Jack: “Identity can’t be performed. It’s not a costume you take on and off.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t it? Look around, Jack. Every office, every street corner, every profile picture — people wear roles like masks. Some are brave enough to call it performance. The rest just call it life.”

Host: The bartender paused, listening, a faint smile on his face — the kind of smile that comes from overhearing something truer than it first sounds. The song on the jukebox changed — now a low hum of “Viva Forever,” its nostalgic notes curling through the smoke.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That pretending to be Scary Spice as a kid is some kind of spiritual awakening?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it’s a glimpse — a raw, unfiltered glimpse — of who you might become if you stop censoring yourself. The little girl who dressed as Scary was already rehearsing courage. Confidence. Presence. She was daring to be seen.”

Jack: “Or she was just a kid having fun.”

Jeeny: (gently, almost whispering) “You say that like fun isn’t sacred.”

Host: The bar quieted for a moment — the kind of silence that falls when truth slips unexpectedly into the room. Jack’s hand rested on his glass, unmoving. His reflection in the bottle looked tired — but not cynical, not tonight.

Jack: “You ever think maybe all that play-acting — all that pretending — just sets us up for disappointment? We grow up believing we can be anyone. Then life reminds us we’re... ordinary.”

Jeeny: “You think ordinary means meaningless? Jack, being ordinary is just another kind of extraordinary. The trick is remembering how to play — how to imagine. You call it pretending; I call it remembering the parts of ourselves that the world told us to forget.”

Jack: (quietly) “I forgot how to play a long time ago.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it’s time to start again.”

Host: The rain softened. A faint neon glow from the sign outside painted their faces in a subtle wash of red and blue — like stage lights before a final performance.
Jeeny reached into her bag, pulled out a small birthday hat, the kind children wear — flimsy, cheap, glittering under the bar’s low light.

Jeeny: “Put it on.”

Jack: (smirking) “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Jeeny: “Come on. One drink, one laugh, one tiny rebellion. Be Scary Spice for sixty seconds. Humor me.”

Jack: “I don’t do costumes.”

Jeeny: “You already do, Jack. You just call yours professionalism.”

Host: She slid the hat across the bar, her eyes unwavering. For a moment, something in him cracked — the small fracture that appears when cynicism meets tenderness. He looked at the hat, at her, and finally — with a sigh that felt like surrender — he placed it on his head.

The bar erupted in small, surprised laughter. Even the bartender clapped once.
Jeeny raised her glass.

Jeeny: “To pretending — the first language of becoming.”

Jack: (raising his drink, half-smiling) “To pretending... and maybe remembering.”

Host: They drank. The music swelled, the melody of youth pressing through the years like sunlight breaking through a dusty attic window. For a moment, the weight of adulthood lifted.
Jeeny started humming — and then, softly, singing: ‘If you wanna be my lover...’

Jack laughed. Really laughed — the kind of laughter that doesn’t disguise itself as irony. The kind that belongs to someone who, for a brief second, forgets to be guarded.

Jeeny: (grinning wide) “See? There he is. The kid who used to believe he could be anything.”

Jack: (quietly, almost to himself) “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Jeeny: “He’s still there. Just needed the right song.”

Host: The bar glowed brighter now — or maybe it was just them. The rain had stopped outside, leaving the street slick with reflections — the city’s lights shimmering like confetti. The jukebox rolled into another song, the rhythm pulsing through the floorboards like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You think we ever really grow up, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. We just get better at pretending we have.”

Host: They both laughed.
The bartender wiped the counter, humming softly along with the music. Jeeny leaned back, her eyes soft, her smile the quiet kind that knows the world is absurd — and loves it anyway.

Jack removed the hat and placed it gently on the counter, as though setting down something sacred.

Jack: “You know... maybe you’re right. Maybe the costumes matter. Maybe the pretending — the dancing, the chaos — maybe that’s how we survive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s how we shine.”

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered once more — its red glow reflecting in a puddle shaped like a heart.
Inside, laughter echoed off the walls — messy, human, fleeting — the kind that reminds you that life, with all its seriousness, is still a song.

And as the last note of the jukebox faded, they sat in that sacred in-between — between irony and innocence, between who they were and who they still might become.
For just a heartbeat, under the hum of dying neon, Jack and Jeeny were both kids again — fearless, ridiculous, free — and yes, a little bit Scary.