I've got more than 600 pairs of Ray-Ban sunglasses, from 1950s

Host: The afternoon sunlight filtered through tall windows, spilling onto a floor made of polished wood and the soft hum of a vintage record player. A slow melody — something from the 1970s, scratchy but alive — danced in the air. The room was lined with frames, posters, and, most strikingly, a wall covered entirely with sunglasses — hundreds of them, each pair reflecting light like tiny, guarded secrets.

Jack stood near the door, his hands in his pockets, eyes moving across the wall in disbelief. Jeeny sat on a sofa, her legs crossed, a Ray-Ban case open in her lap, smiling as if she’d just discovered a treasure map.

Host: The smell of old vinyl, coffee, and sunlight made the space feel like both a museum and a memory. On the table between them lay an open magazine, an article with Suzi Quatro’s photo and her words in bold:
“I’ve got more than 600 pairs of Ray-Ban sunglasses…”

Jeeny: Touching one of the pairs. “Imagine that — six hundred pairs. Every one of them a little story, a little mood. She called it her ‘wall of light.’ Don’t you think that’s beautiful, Jack? Like a diary you can wear.”

Jack: Smirking, tilting his head. “Beautiful, maybe. But also a bit... absurd. Six hundred pairs of sunglasses? That’s not a collection; that’s an obsession. It’s like drowning in your own taste.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, placing a pair of aviators on her nose, the lenses mirroring Jack’s skeptical expression. The light bounced, flickering across his face like a challenge.

Jeeny: “Why does everything beautiful have to be diagnosed, Jack? Some people collect art, some collect memories, some collect shoes. Suzi collects reflections. Maybe it’s not about need — maybe it’s about joy.”

Jack: “Or control. People collect things when they can’t collect meaning. It’s a symptom of emptiness, not abundance. You ever think of that?”

Host: The record crackled, a faint pop echoing through the room. Outside, the streets buzzed with weekend life — cars, laughter, the faint bark of a dog. Inside, the tension tightened like a held breath.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve never loved anything enough to want to surround yourself with it. Maybe she sees herself in every pair — a thousand versions of Suzi, preserved in glass and color. Maybe she’s not hiding from life, Jack. Maybe she’s celebrating it.”

Jack: He walked closer to the wall, touching one of the frames lightly. “Celebration? Or performance? Look at them — lined up like soldiers, polished, arranged. It’s not about the sunglasses, Jeeny. It’s about image. She’s an icon, not a woman. And icons don’t live — they curate.”

Jeeny: Leaning forward. “You always say that like it’s a crime to curate your own life. What’s wrong with aesthetic expression? With beauty as a kind of armor? Suzi was a woman in a world that tried to define her. Maybe the sunglasses were her shield — her way of saying, ‘You can see me, but only through my lens.’”

Host: Jack turned, his gray eyes meeting hers**, the kind of gaze that cuts and lingers. The light shifted, casting his shadow across the wall, darkening a dozen pairs at once.

Jack: “And how long can you live behind glass, Jeeny? You put on enough masks, you start to forget your own face. That’s not freedom, that’s furniture. You stop being and start decorating.”

Jeeny: Her voice softened, but her eyes held him. “But isn’t that what all of us do, Jack? Every outfit, every word, every smile — all of it’s a kind of mask, isn’t it? We’re all just choosing the versions of ourselves the world gets to see.”

Host: A long silence. The record ended, and the needle clicked in its groove, a tiny heartbeat of static. Jack sighed, sitting beside her, resting his elbows on his knees.

Jack: “You’re right. We do choose our masks. But six hundred of them? That’s not self-expression — that’s self-erasure. You can’t see the world clearly when you’re always hiding behind a tint.”

Jeeny: “Unless the tint helps you survive it.” She smiled, faintly, touching the edge of a pair with care. “You call it hiding, I call it adapting. Every era breaks women who don’t bend. Suzi didn’t bend — she shone. The sunglasses weren’t her escape; they were her statement. ‘I decide how you see me.’”

Host: The sun lowered, painting the wall in amber and shadow, every pair of lenses catching the light like small, knowing eyes.

Jack: Quietly, almost thoughtful now. “You think that’s what we’re all doing? Building little walls of who we’d rather be, until one day we’re just… collections?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But maybe collections are what keep us alive. Each object, each memory, each song — a fragment of what we’ve loved. You call that empty. I call that human.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked, as though he were seeing the reflection of his own loneliness in those rows of glass. The rain began outside — a light, tapping rhythm — the kind that echoes in rooms filled with nostalgia.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? Maybe I’ve been so busy rejecting surfaces that I’ve forgotten how to appreciate them. Maybe what you call armor, I’ve been calling artifice because I’m afraid of my own.”

Jeeny: Smiling now, her voice gentle but sure. “Maybe we all are. But that’s what makes us interesting, Jack. Every lens — even a Ray-Ban — tells a story about how we’ve seen the world, and how the world has seen us.”

Host: The light dimmed to gold, then to blue. Jeeny stood, lifting a pair of cat-eye sunglasses, and placed them on Jack’s face.

Jeeny: Softly. “Here. Try seeing the world her way.”

Host: Jack looked up, the room now tinted in rose-gold, warm, dreamlike, as if the world had softened its edges for him. For a moment, he smiled — a real, unguarded smile, one that reflected both mockery and peace.

Jack: “Not bad, Jeeny. I could get used to this. Six hundred of these and maybe I’d finally see something worth believing in.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’d just finally see yourself — in every reflection.”

Host: The camera would now pull back — the room bathed in amber, the sunglasses gleaming like stars on a constellation of selfhood. The music started again — a faint, crackling guitar, a woman’s voice, rebellious, bright, free.

And as the scene faded, the truth lingered: that even in the most material collections lie our deepest attempts at identity — to own, to shape, to shine, to say —
“I am here, and I choose how the light finds me.”