There are some people who want to throw their arms round you

Host: The snow was falling in slow, silent flakes, like ash from a gentle fire. The city was dressed in lights, windows glowing gold and red, music drifting from every storefront, and yet — beneath the laughter, there was a quiet tension, the kind that only holidays seem to stir.

Host: Inside a small downtown bar, the air was warm, thick with the smell of cinnamon and whiskey. A fireplace cracked softly in the corner, throwing orange light across the faces of two old friends sitting opposite each other in a wooden booth.

Host: Jack sat slouched, his hands around a half-empty glass. His grey eyes caught the flicker of firelight like shards of metal. Across from him, Jeeny, wrapped in a dark red coat, watched him with a faint smile, her breath soft in the haze of conversation around them.

Jeeny: “Robert Staughton Lynd once said, ‘There are some people who want to throw their arms round you simply because it is Christmas; there are other people who want to strangle you simply because it is Christmas.’” She chuckled softly. “It’s funny — and true, don’t you think?”

Jack: He smirked. “Yeah. Christmas brings out the best and worst in people. Mostly the worst. You can almost smell the hypocrisy in the air — forgiveness, love, charity, all wrapped in a 24-hour expiration date.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, but there was sadness behind it. The bartender walked by, humming along to “Silent Night,” and the firelight danced on Jack’s face, deepening the lines around his eyes.

Jeeny: “You’ve always been cynical about Christmas, Jack. What happened to you? Did Santa forget your address one year?”

Jack: “Santa? No. But life sure did.” He leaned forward. “Look around, Jeeny. Everyone’s pretending. The office guy buying gifts for people he gossips about all year. Families forcing smiles for photos while they can’t stand to sit at the same table. Christmas isn’t about love — it’s about obligation.”

Jeeny: “That’s one way to see it. But maybe it’s not about what’s real — maybe it’s about what we’re trying to make real. Maybe that’s the point of Christmas — to pretend, just for one day, that we can be the people we wish we were.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the warm air, drifting like the smoke from the fireplace. Jack’s gaze softened, if only slightly.

Jack: “Pretend? That’s your defense? So the whole thing’s a lie — but a beautiful one, is that it?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes a lie can heal for a while. A white lie made of hope. Isn’t that better than nothing?”

Jack: Scoffs. “Hope built on lies collapses faster than a bad Christmas tree.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Scrooge before the ghosts showed up.”

Host: Jack’s laugh came out low and rough, like gravel sliding down a hill. He drummed his fingers on the table, watching the snow melt on the windowpane.

Jack: “Scrooge had a point. People only become generous when the calendar tells them to. And the next day? They go back to being who they are — selfish, small, scared. You want to talk about the spirit of Christmas? It’s seasonal amnesia.”

Jeeny: Leaning closer. “But don’t you think that even temporary kindness has value? Even if it fades, it still happens. Someone gets a meal. Someone gets a visit. A lonely person feels seen. Maybe it’s not lasting — but it’s still real in that moment.”

Host: The fire popped, a tiny spark leaping into the air before fading into darkness. Jack watched it, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.

Jack: “Mom used to love Christmas.” His voice was quieter now. “She’d bake for the whole block, even the people she hated. She’d say it was about ‘spreading warmth.’ But the moment January hit, she went back to fighting with everyone. I never understood that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the beauty of it. Even your mom — even she wanted to believe, for a little while, that people could be better. That she could.”

Jack: “So we lie to ourselves to survive the year?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. And sometimes, we tell the truth — just one night a year. You ever notice how people actually say things on Christmas Eve they never say otherwise? ‘I miss you.’ ‘I love you.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ The holiday doesn’t change people — it just gives them permission to feel.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the bartender changed a bulb above the counter. A faint tune played — Bing Crosby, soft and old-fashioned. The world outside was blanketed in white silence.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it’s not poetry, Jeeny. It’s pressure. The whole system of it — buy gifts, fake smiles, drink, sing, repeat. And if you don’t join in, you’re the Grinch.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But have you ever thought the Grinch just wanted to belong, too?”

Jack: Pauses. “You always flip the story.”

Jeeny: “Because every story has another side. Even the bitter ones.” She sipped her tea, the steam curling around her face. “I remember volunteering one Christmas — a homeless shelter downtown. This man came in, hadn’t spoken to anyone in days. He refused food, gifts, everything. But when a little girl gave him a cup of cocoa, he started crying. He told her, ‘You reminded me I was still human.’ That’s what Christmas does — it pokes holes in the armor.”

Host: Jack looked away, his reflection caught in the frosted glass. The street outside shimmered with light, people passing, laughing, living.

Jack: “And then what? He went back to the street the next week, didn’t he?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But for one night, he wasn’t alone. Isn’t that something?”

Host: The silence deepened. Only the sound of crackling logs filled the air, rhythmic, like a slow, beating heart.

Jack: “You know, maybe I envy that. Not the joy — the belief. The idea that even temporary warmth means something. I lost that somewhere between the bills and the breakups.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s your Christmas ghost, Jack. Not regret — but the absence of wonder.”

Host: He smiled faintly, not in amusement but in acceptance. He took a sip from his glass, watching the ice swirl like tiny galaxies.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to find that again? The wonder?”

Jeeny: “Always. But you have to stop looking for the big miracle. It’s in small things — in the laugh of a stranger, the sound of carolers, even in the way the snow keeps falling, no matter how tired the world is.”

Host: The bar door opened briefly, letting in a gust of cold air and a flurry of snowflakes. A group of friends entered, their voices bright, their coats dusted white. One of them accidentally bumped into Jack’s chair, muttering an apology with a smile.

Jack: Watching them, softly. “They don’t even know me, but they still smiled. Maybe… maybe you’re right.”

Jeeny: “You see? Even you want to throw your arms round someone — just not to strangle them this time.”

Host: They both laughed, and the sound was like the fire warming the room — alive, imperfect, real.

Host: Outside, the snow continued its slow descent, coating the city in a fragile peace. Inside, two old souls found a piece of Christmas that wasn’t in the lights or the songs — but in the quiet understanding that even cynicism can thaw, given enough warmth.

Host: The camera lingered on the window, where their reflections shimmered beside the falling snow, and the world — for just a moment — looked like it had forgiven itself.