On Christmas, my family and I see a movie and go out for Chinese

Host: The sky above the city was bruised with soft gray clouds, heavy with the promise of snow. The streets of Manhattan glowed under a thousand colored lights, windows decorated with tinsel and plastic angels. Carols played from shopfronts, laughter spilled from restaurants, and everywhere the world looked wrapped in a thick illusion of happiness.

But in a quiet corner booth of a small Chinese restaurant tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the air smelled of ginger, soy, and the faintest trace of loneliness.

Jack sat with his coat still on, chopsticks idle between his fingers. His grey eyes watched the snowflakes fall through the window like silent ghosts. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, the steam fogging her glasses before she gently pushed them up her nose.

It was Christmas Eve. The streets outside were alive. Inside, the world was smaller—quieter, more human.

Jeeny: “You know what Eden Sher said once? ‘On Christmas, my family and I see a movie and go out for Chinese food. We don’t celebrate Christmas in the traditional sense, in that we do not actually celebrate Christmas.’”

Jack: “Sounds like my kind of holiday.”

Host: Jack’s voice was dry, laced with that familiar humor that always sat somewhere between irony and weariness.

Jeeny: “You’d like it because it means you don’t have to pretend. No carols, no fake smiles, no pretending to be moved by gifts you don’t want.”

Jack: “Exactly. The honesty of not pretending—it’s rare. Everyone else is drunk on performance. It’s not Christmas anymore; it’s capitalism in a Santa suit.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think there’s something… tender in the pretending? Even if it’s artificial, people try. They reach for warmth.”

Jack: “Warmth bought at the price of illusion. The lights, the cheer—it’s all anesthetic. People aren’t celebrating Christ; they’re celebrating distraction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe distraction is what keeps us sane.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the plates he carried gleaming under the soft lantern light. Somewhere, in the corner, an old radio hummed faintly—Dean Martin’s “Let It Snow” playing as if through memory.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was a kid, we didn’t celebrate Christmas either. My mom would take me to the movies, just like Eden Sher’s family. The theaters were half-empty, the streets quiet, and for once the world didn’t demand that we belong to it. It was... peaceful.”

Jack: “You mean it was empty. Peaceful’s just a nicer word for lonely.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I liked that emptiness. It felt like freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom from what?”

Jeeny: “Expectation. The kind that says you must be happy, that you must gather, that you must believe in something just because everyone else does.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened. The steam rose between them like a thin curtain, carrying the scent of ginger and garlic, mingling with thought.

Jack: “So you’re saying not celebrating was your way of celebrating?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. By doing nothing, we created space to feel something real.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And slightly tragic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe all honest things are.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, settling on parked cars, softening the hard edges of the street. The restaurant filled with quiet laughter from a table of university students nearby, their joy simple and uncalculated.

Jack: “You know what I think? Not celebrating is the most authentic way to celebrate anything. Once you strip the ritual, you might actually find the essence.”

Jeeny: “And what essence is that?”

Jack: “That nothing means anything until we decide it does. Christmas, birthdays, love—they’re all constructs held together by collective delusion.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re sitting here, with me, on Christmas Eve.”

Jack: “Because delusion shared is better than solitude perfected.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the real miracle.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes glimmering in the soft light. For a brief moment, the room seemed to pause—the noise, the heat, even the ticking clock above the kitchen window—all caught in the stillness of something unspoken.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why some of us choose to abstain from tradition? Not out of rebellion, but out of quiet disconnection. Like we can’t quite fit into the collective rhythm.”

Jack: “Because we see through it. Once you see the machinery, it’s hard to hear the music.”

Jeeny: “Maybe seeing through it isn’t wisdom—it’s loneliness wearing intelligence like armor.”

Jack: “And maybe faith is just ignorance dressed as hope.”

Host: Her hand twitched, almost reaching across the table, but she stopped herself. The light from the lantern above flickered, casting their faces into brief chiaroscuro—like a painter’s brush caught mid-motion.

Jeeny: “You ever get tired of being the cynic in every room?”

Jack: “Only when I realize the room needs one.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the room needs a believer more.”

Jack: “Believers start wars. Cynics just stay out of the way.”

Jeeny: “Believers also start art, Jack. And families. And forgiveness.”

Host: The word lingered in the air—forgiveness—as though it were heavier than it sounded.

Jack: “You think celebrating Christmas—or not celebrating it—changes anything about who we are?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about changing. It’s about pausing. Rituals—whatever kind they are—give the soul a place to rest, even if just for a day.”

Jack: “And those who can’t find rest in ritual?”

Jeeny: “They find it in small things. In laughter over dumplings. In a movie theater half-empty. In silence that doesn’t feel hostile.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lowered to his plate. A piece of sweet and sour pork reflected the red lantern light, like a tiny heart glowing beneath syrup.

Jack: “You talk about silence like it’s a home. For me, it’s a hallway I can’t leave.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve mistaken loneliness for honesty.”

Jack: “And maybe you’ve mistaken participation for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they’re both the same thing, just in different costumes.”

Host: The door bell jingled softly as another family entered—laughing, shedding their coats, shaking off the snow. A small girl pointed excitedly at a golden dragon hanging from the ceiling. Her laughter filled the air like something that refused to doubt.

Jeeny watched them for a moment, a quiet smile returning to her face.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? The people who don’t celebrate Christmas are the ones who understand it best.”

Jack: “How do you figure?”

Jeeny: “Because they see it without the wrapping paper. They see the loneliness, the absurdity, the beauty in the noise. They know it’s just another day—and that’s exactly why it’s worth noticing.”

Jack: “So, celebrating not celebrating becomes the truest kind of celebration.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The waiter brought the check, placing it quietly between them. Neither moved to take it right away. Outside, the snow had stopped. The streetlights turned the world into an endless field of soft white and flickering gold.

Jack: “You ever wish you could just belong to something simple? Believe without dissecting?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But maybe belonging isn’t about believing. Maybe it’s about being there. Even if the only tradition is showing up for someone.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked—the soft tremor in her hands, the tired hope in her eyes, the quiet strength of someone who had made peace with not fitting in.

He nodded slowly.

Jack: “Then I guess I’m celebrating, after all.”

Jeeny: “In your own godless way.”

Jack: “The best kind.”

Host: The bill was paid. The plates were cleared. The lanterns overhead swayed slightly in the faint draft from the closing door.

As they stepped outside, the city glowed—streets lined with lights, people clutching gifts, couples walking hand in hand through the snow.

Jack and Jeeny stood for a moment beneath a flickering streetlamp, their breath rising in soft clouds.

Jeeny: “Merry non-Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: “Same to you. May all your meaningless days be filled with meaning.”

Host: She laughed, and the sound of it rose into the cold air, joining the distant carols and the hush of falling snow.

They walked down the street, side by side—two figures moving through the beautiful absurdity of a holiday that neither of them believed in, yet somehow both had come to understand.

And above them, the snow fell—indifferent, pure, and endlessly forgiving.