What I don't like about office Christmas parties is looking for a

Host: The office was half-dark, half-drunk on leftover holiday light. Strands of tangled tinsel hung from the ceiling like wilted vines. The floor was a battlefield of confetti, plastic cups, and the occasional wounded paper plate still carrying crumbs of cake and regret.

It was 2:13 a.m. The party had ended hours ago — at least for everyone else.

Only Jack remained, sitting at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, and a half-empty bottle of cheap champagne standing guard beside his laptop. His gray eyes — sharp, cold — now glowed with the faint melancholy of a man who’d just said too much to the wrong people.

Jeeny appeared in the doorway, her heels clicking against the linoleum, her coat draped over one arm. Her hair was still threaded with a bit of gold glitter, like the last traces of a firework that refused to fade.

Jeeny: “You’re still here.”

Jack: “So are you.”

Jeeny: “I came back for my bag.” (She spots the bottle.) “You came back for… repentance?”

Jack: “More like anesthesia.”

Jeeny: (smirking) “Phyllis Diller once said, ‘What I don’t like about office Christmas parties is looking for a job the next day.’ You might want to keep that in mind, Jack.”

Jack: “Oh, I’ve already started drafting the resignation email. Just trying to find the right emoji to soften the blow.”

Jeeny: “Let me guess — the crying-laughing one?”

Jack: “Nah. The clown face. Feels more honest.”

Host: The lights in the hallway flickered, and a faint buzz from the broken vending machine filled the air. Somewhere, a printer woke up for no reason — machines have a cruel sense of humor that way.

Jeeny: “So what did you say this time?”

Jack: “Depends. Are we talking before or after the karaoke?”

Jeeny: “Start from the top.”

Jack: “I told Rob from accounting that his Christmas bonus was the company’s way of apologizing for his personality. Then I told the CEO’s wife that her perfume smelled like a board meeting.”

Jeeny: (wincing) “And after the karaoke?”

Jack: “I sang ‘Working Class Hero.’ With edits.”

Jeeny: “s?”

Jack: “Let’s just say Lennon would’ve blushed.”

Host: Jeeny covered her face with her hand, but her shoulders were shaking with laughter.

Jeeny: “You’re a menace.”

Jack: “No. I’m honest. This whole ‘office holiday joy’ thing — it’s just performance art for people pretending not to hate each other for twelve hours a day.”

Jeeny: “That’s not entirely fair.”

Jack: “Really? We spend the year competing for promotions, then drink eggnog together and call it team spirit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s less about pretending and more about trying. People need moments where they can forget the grind. Even if it’s fake, it’s still a break.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, the light catching the sheen of exhaustion on his face. His tie hung like a noose undone.

Jack: “You ever notice how the ‘holiday spirit’ always shows up after three glasses of prosecco? It’s not joy — it’s just temporary amnesia.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical tonight.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. Tomorrow half of these people will wake up terrified they said the wrong thing. The other half will wake up pretending they didn’t hear it.”

Jeeny: “And you’ll wake up unemployed.”

Jack: “That’s the dream.”

Jeeny: “That’s the disaster.”

Jack: “No. The disaster is calling this a ‘family.’ Families don’t send quarterly reports or cut people for missing targets.”

Jeeny: “Families also don’t pay rent, Jack.”

Host: The pause that followed wasn’t angry. It was the kind that carries a shared weariness — two people who had seen the same kind of soul-suffocating realism and reacted differently.

Jack: “You defend this place like it’s a church.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. A broken one. But it’s where we show up every day, hoping the sermon gets better.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But you know what happens when the sermon stops making sense? The faithful leave.”

Jeeny: “And go where? You think there’s some perfect job out there where everyone’s free, creative, and kind? Every system is flawed. The trick is finding the small corners of decency inside them.”

Jack: “Like this?” (He lifts the bottle.)

Jeeny: “Like this.” (She takes it from him and drinks.)

Host: The rain had begun to fall outside — soft, deliberate, a lullaby for the restless. The city beyond the window looked like it was drowning in Christmas lights.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the office party was the one night everyone let their masks down. Turns out it’s the night they wear new ones.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes, people need new masks. For courage. To say the things they can’t in daylight.”

Jack: “Like what?”

Jeeny: “Like thank you. Or I’m sorry. Or I’m lonely.”

Jack: “And what do they say instead?”

Jeeny: “Jokes. To hide the ache.”

Host: Jack looked at her then, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Jack: “Is that what we’re doing now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least we’re aware of it.”

Jack: “Awareness doesn’t fix much.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you human.”

Host: The clock above the copier read 2:42 a.m. The office smelled of stale beer and dying hope. A small string of lights over the breakroom blinked weakly, trying not to surrender.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? We spend all year chasing numbers and metrics. Then one night in December, we drink, we dance, and for a moment, we remember that we’re just people trying not to fall apart.”

Jack: “And then Monday comes.”

Jeeny: “And Monday comes.”

Jack: “So why bother pretending?”

Jeeny: “Because the pretending — for one night — might save someone. Might make them feel like they matter. Even if they forget the next day.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, pounding against the windows like applause. Jeeny stood, buttoning her coat.

Jeeny: “You coming?”

Jack: “Nah. I’ll stay a little longer. Write that apology email before HR does it for me.”

Jeeny: “Need me to proofread it?”

Jack: “No. I’m going to write it like a eulogy. Keep it honest.”

Jeeny: “Then it might be the best thing you’ve ever written.”

Host: She walked to the door, then paused, turning back.

Jeeny: “You know, Diller’s joke wasn’t really about losing your job. It was about losing your dignity — and laughing before the world does it for you.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what we all do. Laugh before they can fire us.”

Jeeny: “Or before life does.”

Host: Their eyes met — two exhausted souls suspended in the comedy of survival.

Jeeny: “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Jack: (grinning) “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — wide shot — the office glowing dimly in the storm’s reflection. Jack sitting alone, the faint glimmer of humor and regret dancing in his eyes.

He typed, slowly, deliberately, his words filling the quiet:

“Dear Team,
I may have said too much tonight.
Or maybe not enough.
Either way, thanks for reminding me that I still feel something — even if it’s just hangover and honesty.
– Jack.”

He hit send, closed the laptop, and looked toward the window. The lights from the city shimmered like blurred memories — imperfect, chaotic, but alive.

Host: Outside, the storm softened, and the faint chime of a distant church bell broke the silence.

Jack smiled to himself — the weary smile of a man who knew he might lose his job tomorrow,
but somehow, after all the noise and truth and laughter,
he didn’t feel lost at all.