December, the Saturday of the year.

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The city starts dressing up, and people become sentimental in public again. Lights go up on streets that passed unnoticed just days before, and suddenly everything smells like cinnamon and expectations.

They call it the most wonderful time of the year. And maybe it is.

But I haven’t seen daylight in a week, and we’re “doing great,” which is hospitality code for: nothing is on fire, but everybody is one breath away from crying.

I just had coffee with the manager. He brought cookies that his mom baked. He took one bite and started crying; his tears had been sitting in the corners of his eyes all December, waiting for permission. I didn’t say anything. I let him have his moment. When I saw a server walking toward us, I told him to go to the bathroom, wash his face, breathe, and come back when he was ready.

Fenia, the server, comes in like a spark plug as always—hair still damp from the shower she probably didn’t have time for, eyes already caffeinated, hope still somehow alive.

She asks, “How many covers tonight?”

I say, “Two hundred and twenty.”

She stares at me for two seconds. Just two.

Then she lifts her hand like she’s about to deliver a blessing… and instead gives me the middle finger, “Merry Christmas to you too,” I say, loud enough for the bartenders to laugh and the dishwasher to shake his head and mutter something in Greek that probably translates to we are all going to hell, but at least it’s busy.

The pastry chef stops for a minute, he leans on the counter and says quietly,

“Can I get a Campari shot?” Normally, we’d hide it. Pretend rules exist. Instead, I reached for the bottle and poured twelve shots.

I handed him the tray.

“Go. Toast in the kitchen,” I said. He hesitated. He looked at the glasses. He looked at me. He came back seconds later, eyes a little brighter; he had the face of a man who definitely had more than his share of whatever the appropriate amount was supposed to be.

December’s hospitality spirituality: no therapy, no rest, no “self-care routines”, just a stolen moment, a sip, a toast to survival, to still standing. Keep holding the walls up with jokes, sugar, caffeine, and whatever tiny rebellions keep us going.

December, man, brutal, ridiculous, loud, and exhausting.

The DJ shows up. He’s still mad at me because I used Shazam yesterday while he was playing. He looked genuinely betrayed that I “knew” the songs, so I told him the secret. Now he’s walking around disappointed in technology and humanity.He keeps lecturing everyone about how tech is ruining music, and I keep reminding him that one day we’ll replace DJs, too. That part really bothers him. I just made him a Negroni. He’ll survive.

The manager comes back smiling like nothing ever happened.

I give the pastry chef a silent nod through the kitchen window—our new sacred language.

Fenia swings by, steals half a cookie like it’s medicine, and the DJ leans over and says,

“Merry Christmas. We’re going to have fun.”

Sure, we are.