The window in which it's acceptable to listen to Ella

Host: The city was dressed in its winter uniform — strings of lights tangled around trees, storefronts glowing, and the air thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts and wet asphalt. A faint snow had begun to fall, soft, unhurried, melting on the sidewalk before it could settle.

Inside a small vinyl café tucked between a bookstore and an antique shop, a record crackled gently from the turntable. The familiar voice of Ella Fitzgerald filled the room, velvety and warm — “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” echoing through the faint hum of conversation.

Jeeny sat at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of cocoa, eyes soft with nostalgia. Across from her, Jack sat with his usual black coffee, his coat unbuttoned, his expression unreadable.

Host: Outside the window, the world seemed like a film reel slowed to half-speed — couples laughing, children tugging mittens, the faint sound of a saxophone from a nearby street musician. Inside, everything was muted gold and shadow.

Jeeny: “I’ve had this song on repeat all week,” she said, her voice almost drowned by the faint hiss of the record. “Sally Rooney once said, ‘The window in which it's acceptable to listen to Ella Fitzgerald's 1960 record "Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas" is short, so I keep it in heavy rotation throughout the festive season.’ I know exactly what she means.”

Jack: “Short window, huh? Maybe that’s the point. Things that are rare hit harder. You get bored if they last all year.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we’re scared of things lasting — scared of them losing their magic. So we confine them to a few weeks, call it ‘the season,’ and let ourselves feel only in those boundaries.”

Jack: “Boundaries keep you sane, Jeeny. Without them, everything loses meaning. Christmas music in July — that’s chaos.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s freedom. Maybe we’d be happier if we stopped pretending joy needs a date.”

Host: The record skipped once, then steadied. Jack’s eyes flickered toward the spinning vinyl, his fingers tapping the table in time with the soft swing of brass and Ella’s laughter woven into the melody.

Jack: “You really believe people can feel joy on command? The world isn’t a playlist. You don’t just drop the needle on happiness.”

Jeeny: “No, but maybe the music reminds us it’s still possible. Ella sings like joy isn’t a luxury — like it’s something you can borrow for three minutes if you need it.”

Jack: “Borrowed joy. That’s temporary.”

Jeeny: “All joy is temporary, Jack. That’s why it matters.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, the window fogging as if trying to keep the warmth trapped inside. A group of students entered, shaking off their scarves, filling the air with that familiar December buzz — half cheer, half melancholy.

Jack: “You sound like one of those people who think nostalgia is therapy. It’s not. It’s an escape hatch.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Nostalgia hurts because it’s true. You hear a song like this, and for a moment, you remember what it felt like to believe in something — even if you don’t anymore.”

Jack: “So you listen to a fifty-year-old record to feel emotions you can’t feel in the present?”

Jeeny: “Don’t you?”

Host: Jack paused. The question hung, caught between them and the music, heavier than the air could hold. He shifted, leaned back, his grey eyes distant, watching a young couple through the window, their hands brushing as they laughed into the cold.

Jack: “Maybe I used to. My dad loved this album. He’d play it while he fixed the lights every Christmas Eve. I remember hating it. Thought it sounded too happy for our house.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now… it sounds like the only time he wasn’t pretending.”

Host: The music swelled — horns lifting, Ella’s voice rich and effortless, filling the cracks between their words. Jeeny’s gaze softened, her fingers trembling slightly around the mug.

Jeeny: “You see? That’s what I mean. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s memory speaking — the kind that time can’t quite bury.”

Jack: “Or it’s a trick. A sugarcoated lie wrapped in vinyl.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what art is supposed to be? A beautiful lie that lets us survive the truth?”

Host: The light shifted, the neon sign outside casting red reflections across Jack’s face. The room had grown quieter now, the record nearing its end, the air charged with that subtle ache only December can carry.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we keep listening to the same songs every year? Like we’re afraid to move on?”

Jeeny: “Because we don’t want to. Those songs remember us, even when people don’t. They keep pieces of us safe — the good pieces.”

Jack: “The child who still believes?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The one who still hopes, even when the adult has stopped.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted — a rare moment of vulnerability, so quick it might’ve been mistaken for reflection. He looked toward the record player again, toward the slow spin of time in black grooves.

Jack: “You ever think Ella knew she was recording something that would outlive her?”

Jeeny: “Maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she just wanted to make something warm enough for strangers to feel less alone in December.”

Host: The last note of the song lingered — Ella’s laugh, light and human, fading into the hum of the needle. Jeeny reached forward, lifting the arm, her fingers delicate, like she was touching something sacred.

Jeeny: “Every time I play this record, it feels like a ritual. Like lighting a candle for who I used to be.”

Jack: “You think people need rituals to feel alive?”

Jeeny: “I think they need something to mark the passing of time. Something to hold on to when the year feels too heavy.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and steady. The snow outside turned the world white, muffling the noise of the city until only the faint echo of the record’s silence remained.

Jack: “So we replay the same songs, hang the same lights, pretend we’re celebrating something new… but we’re really just remembering.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s okay. Maybe remembering is the closest thing we get to renewal.”

Host: The fireplace in the corner crackled softly. Jack stood, pulling on his coat, his breath visible in the faint chill that crept through the doorframe.

Jack: “You gonna keep it spinning till New Year’s?”

Jeeny: “Until it stops feeling like I need it.”

Jack: “That might take a while.”

Jeeny: “I hope so.”

Host: Jack gave a small, crooked smile, the kind that seemed to hide a thousand unspoken apologies, and turned toward the door. The bell jingled softly as he stepped into the cold night.

Jeeny stayed behind, lowering the needle again, and as Ella’s voice filled the café once more — rich, effortless, timeless — the camera pulled back through the window, showing her alone, yet somehow not lonely.

Host: Outside, the snow fell heavier now, each flake glowing under the streetlights. And somewhere between the record’s crackles and the city’s silence, the world — for a fleeting moment — felt almost tender again.

Host: Because maybe, as Sally Rooney said, the window to listen to such music is short — but within it, the heart remembers how to swing, how to hope, how to feel. And that, perhaps, is all the season ever truly asks.