Ah! yes, I know: those who see me rarely trust my word: I must

Host:
The café was drenched in the slow melancholy of a Parisian evening — its windows fogged by the sighs of conversation, its corners dim with cigarette smoke and solitude. The rain outside traced thin silver lines on the glass, blurring the reflection of passing strangers, turning them into ghosts of thought.

At a corner table near the back, Jack sat with a half-finished glass of red wine, his hands poised around it like a philosopher contemplating gravity. His grey eyes were focused not on the crowd, but on his own reflection in the window — blurred, detached, faintly ironic.

Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin in her palm, her brown eyes watching him with quiet intensity. A notebook lay open before her, its pages filled with slanted handwriting — lines of poetry and philosophy mingled together like smoke and breath.

The sound of a piano drifted softly from the other room — a tune that felt both timeless and improvised, much like the conversation about to unfold.

Jack:
Jean-Paul Sartre once wrote, “Ah! yes, I know: those who see me rarely trust my word; I must look too intelligent to keep it.”

(Smiles thinly) A man who understood that the more you think, the less people believe you.

Jeeny:
Or maybe the more you pretend to think. Intelligence, Jack, has a way of performing itself.

Jack:
Performing? No. Thinking is a curse, not a show. People don’t trust the intelligent because intelligence never says what others want to hear.

Jeeny:
Or because intelligence is lonely — and lonely people make others uncomfortable.

Host:
The rain tapped lightly against the glass, a fragile metronome to their words. Jeeny’s voice was calm but sharp, her words deliberate — like arrows wrapped in silk. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his expression caught between amusement and fatigue.

Jack:
You really think it’s loneliness? I think it’s intimidation. People fear what they can’t follow. If someone looks too intelligent, their truth feels like an insult.

Jeeny:
And what’s your truth, Jack? That intelligence isolates you? Or that isolation makes you feel intelligent?

Jack:
(With a small laugh) Touché. But you’re missing Sartre’s irony. He wasn’t bragging. He was mocking himself — the intellectual who sees too much and is trusted too little.

Jeeny:
Maybe he deserved it. People who live too much in their heads forget the world has texture.

Jack:
(Leaning forward) And people who live too much in their hearts drown in sentiment. There’s no trust in either extreme — only pity.

Host:
Her eyes narrowed slightly, catching the light like wet amber. She took a slow sip of coffee, then exhaled, her breath forming a faint fog on the glass between them.

Jeeny:
You know what I think? Sartre didn’t mean intelligence in the academic sense. He meant awareness. The kind that makes you see too clearly to be simple, too conscious to be warm.

Jack:
Awareness, yes. The curse of seeing the strings behind the play. Once you know it’s all artifice, it’s impossible to act sincerely.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s why people stopped trusting him — not because he looked intelligent, but because he looked detached. People don’t trust those who observe them instead of joining them.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly) And yet, every thinker is an observer first. You can’t join the play until you’ve read the script.

Jeeny:
But by then, you’ve missed the performance.

Host:
A flash of lightning illuminated the café window, turning their reflections briefly into silhouettes of glass and shadow. Jack’s face looked carved from thought; Jeeny’s from feeling — opposites drawn to collision.

Jack:
You speak like emotion is truth. But emotion lies faster than reason.

Jeeny:
Emotion doesn’t lie. It distorts, yes — but it’s honest about the distortion. Reason hides its lies behind logic.

Jack:
You mean behind coherence.

Jeeny:
No — behind control. You mistake control for truth, Jack. That’s why people don’t trust you either.

Jack:
(Softly) Maybe because they shouldn’t.

Host:
The piano faltered in the next room — a broken note that lingered in the air before resolving. Jack’s eyes dropped to the table, to the small ripple of wine in his glass. His reflection there was fractured — red, trembling, imperfect.

Jeeny noticed.

Jeeny:
(Quietly) Maybe that’s what Sartre was really admitting. That intelligence creates distrust — not because it deceives others, but because it deceives itself.

Jack:
Explain.

Jeeny:
Because the moment you believe you understand people, you stop listening to them.

Jack:
And what if you’ve listened, and all you’ve heard is noise?

Jeeny:
Then you haven’t listened deeply enough. Beneath every noise is a heartbeat. Even cynicism has a pulse.

Host:
Her words settled over him like falling dust — quiet, almost invisible, but undeniable once touched. Jack’s expression softened, though his voice remained steady, clipped — like a man defending a wall that had already begun to crumble.

Jack:
You think I’m cynical.

Jeeny:
No. I think you’re tired. There’s a difference.

Jack:
Maybe I am. Thinking feels like climbing — and there’s always another peak hiding behind the last one. You never reach anything resembling rest.

Jeeny:
That’s why most people stop climbing. They build houses at the foot of the mountain and call it peace.

Jack:
(Smiling) And you?

Jeeny:
I walk between the two — heart and mind, ground and summit. I trust neither completely.

Jack:
Then you’re either wiser than me or more confused.

Jeeny:
Maybe both.

Host:
The rain softened outside, turning to mist. The light of the café grew warmer, stretching across their faces like a truce.

Jack:
You know, there’s something tragic in Sartre’s words — the idea that intelligence makes you unbelievable. That the smarter you seem, the less human you appear.

Jeeny:
Maybe intelligence doesn’t make you less human. Maybe it just demands that you prove your humanity louder.

Jack:
And if you don’t?

Jeeny:
Then you become a mind in exile. Brilliant, but untouchable.

Jack:
(Quietly) That sounds like me.

Jeeny:
(Smiling softly) No, Jack. You’re not untouchable — just untrusting.

Jack:
Same difference.

Jeeny:
No. Trust is the bridge. Without it, even truth feels like manipulation.

Host:
Her tone was gentle, but her gaze unwavering. Jack looked at her — really looked — and in that moment, the distance between intellect and vulnerability felt thinner than air.

Jack:
Maybe you’re right. Maybe intelligence doesn’t need to prove anything. Maybe it just needs to belong somewhere.

Jeeny:
Exactly. Because even the mind hungers for company.

Jack:
(Smiling faintly) And if the world refuses to trust it?

Jeeny:
Then find someone who does.

Jack:
(Sighs) Easier said than done.

Jeeny:
(Whispering) Not always.

Host:
The music changed again — slower, softer. Outside, the rain had stopped. The city glowed faintly, streets shining like mirrors of the stars they could no longer see.

Jack raised his glass slightly.

Jack:
(To Jeeny) To those who think too much — and still try to be understood.

Jeeny:
(To him) And to those who think enough to forgive them.

Host:
They drank — not as strangers debating thought, but as equals sharing silence. The window reflected them together now — the thinker and the feeler, the skeptic and the believer — both wearing the same quiet fatigue, the same need to be seen without explanation.

Host:
And as the night deepened, the world outside blurred further — lights, people, rain — all dissolving into a single soft hum of existence.

For perhaps Sartre was right: intelligence isolates, makes one suspect, turns sincerity into irony.

But there — in the warmth of shared imperfection — they discovered the paradox his words forgot to mention:

That intelligence alone cannot earn trust —
but vulnerability, when held by the intelligent,
becomes the truest proof of wisdom.

The rain began again, gentle, forgiving.

And through the glass, their reflections softened — not two separate beings,
but one continuous thought:
That to look too intelligent is to risk disbelief —
but to look human while thinking deeply is to be finally, beautifully believed.