It's the most beautiful job in the world to give happiness to

Host:
The city evening was dressed in its most elegant shade of gold, that soft hour between work and dreams, when windows glowed like lanterns and shadows shimmered on the cobblestones. The air was cool, perfumed faintly with rain and the memory of perfume counters long closed for the night.

Inside a small atelier café, tucked behind a flower shop, the lights were low and soft jazz whispered from a record player. The place was a mixture of worlds—half art studio, half refuge. Sketches, fabric swatches, and half-empty teacups lay scattered across the tables.

At one of them sat Jeeny, her fingers lightly stained with charcoal, a sketchbook open, a cup of chamomile steaming beside her. Jack leaned on the counter opposite her, his jacket draped over one shoulder, his expression thoughtful, his eyes a mix of cynicism and curiosity—as though he were constantly measuring meaning against truth.

Host:
The moment was quiet until Jeeny, without looking up, spoke softly, tracing a line across the page as she quoted from memory.

“It’s the most beautiful job in the world to give happiness to people.” — Hubert de Givenchy

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
“Beautiful, sure. But also the most exhausting. Giving happiness is like pouring water into a leaking cup—it keeps slipping away, and you’re left empty before anyone else is full.”

Jeeny:
(looking up, gently)
“Maybe the point isn’t to fill them, Jack. Maybe it’s just to remind them they still thirst.”

Jack:
“You make it sound poetic. But happiness isn’t a profession. It’s luck—and most people don’t have the resources to make it their career.”

Jeeny:
“And yet, some people do it without even trying—a smile, a gesture, a kind word, a dress that makes someone feel seen. That’s what Givenchy meant. He didn’t just make clothes—he gave confidence, grace, a moment where someone could say, ‘I feel beautiful.’ Isn’t that happiness, Jack? Even if it only lasts a moment?”

Jack:
(half-grinning)
“You’re quoting a fashion designer like a philosopher now?”

Jeeny:
(smiling back)
“Why not? Art, fashion, music, words—they’re all the same thing, Jack. Delivery systems for joy. Some people write it, some wear it.”

Host:
The light flickered, the record crackled, and a soft saxophone note floated through the room, lingering like a kiss of sound. Jack poured himself a small glass of wine, studying Jeeny with that familiar mix of skepticism and wonder that followed her everywhere.

Jack:
“You talk like happiness can be tailored. Like it’s a fabric you can cut and shape into meaning.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe it can. Think about it—when someone gives you kindness, it fits, doesn’t it? It warms you, wraps around you like a coat you didn’t know you needed. And when you give it away, it doesn’t make you colder—it somehow makes you warmer.”

Jack:
(quietly)
“Unless you give too much.”

Jeeny:
“Then you’re giving it for the wrong reasons. You can’t give happiness to earn love or prove worth. You give because you remember the darkness—and you’d rather be the one holding a candle than waiting for one.”

Host:
The wind shifted outside, rustling the flowers in the shop next door, their fragrance spilling faintly through the cracked window. Jack’s eyes softened, his voice lower now, stripped of its usual armor.

Jack:
“When I was younger, I thought success was about being remembered. But now I wonder if it’s just about being felt—the way someone’s kindness can linger long after they’re gone.”

Jeeny:
(whispering)
“Yes. Legacy isn’t marble statues or bank accounts—it’s the feeling you leave behind in the people who crossed your path.”

Jack:
(smirking slightly)
“You really believe that giving happiness can be a job? A purpose?”

Jeeny:
“I think it’s the only work worth doing. The rest is just administration.”

Host:
Her words were gentle, but they struck with clarity—like a note so pure it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. Jack looked down at the glass in his hand, the wine’s reflection trembling with the candlelight, as if even the liquid was listening.

Jack:
“Then why does it feel so hard to make people happy? We try—every day—and still, everyone’s tired, dissatisfied, lonely.”

Jeeny:
“Because we keep equating happiness with perfection. We think we have to fix everything before anyone can smile. But happiness doesn’t need a perfect world, Jack—it just needs a moment of grace.”

Jack:
“A moment of grace...”
(pausing, softly)
“I haven’t had one of those in a while.”

Jeeny:
“Then take one now.”

Host:
She reached across the table, resting her hand on his. The touch was light, but it carried something profound—a stillness, a reminder, a proof that connection itself is a form of art. Jack didn’t pull away. For once, his silence wasn’t defensive—it was grateful.

Jack:
“You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny:
“It isn’t easy. But it’s beautiful—and that’s what Givenchy meant. To give happiness is to create beauty in another soul. You don’t need a runway or a canvas for that—you just need empathy.”

Jack:
“Empathy as an art form...”
(half-smile)
“You’d make a hell of a designer.”

Jeeny:
“And you’d make a good muse—if you’d stop frowning so much.”

Host:
They both laughed, and for a moment, the world outside disappeared. The music, the lamplight, the soft pulse of their shared laughter—it was all a kind of small happiness, fragile but real, like thread spun from kindness.

The rain began again, faintly, glistening on the windowpane, the streetlights shimmering through it like falling stars. Jeeny closed her sketchbook, content, as if she’d finished something only she could see.

Jack looked at her, and something in his expression shifted—the usual skepticism replaced by a quiet awe.

Jack:
“Maybe that’s the job, huh? Not to make people happy forever, but to give them a moment where they can breathe, where they remember light exists.”

Jeeny:
(nodding)
“Yes. A moment is enough. Because happiness doesn’t have to stay to be true.”

Host:
Outside, the rain intensified, drumming softly like applause for the small, human miracle unfolding inside that little café.

And as they sat there—two imperfect souls, laughing quietly in the flicker of warmth—it became clear that Hubert de Givenchy’s truth was never about fashion at all.

It was about the sacred craft of kindness,
the art of beauty that lives in generosity,
and the noble work of being human enough
to make someone else’s world shine,
if only for a moment.

For there is no profession more exquisite—
and no reward more eternal—
than to give happiness,
and to do it with style.