And I think maybe all women, if they just had a chance, would be

Host: The evening was thick with candlelight — molten gold trembling in the glass, whispering against the shadows of the small café. The rain had just stopped outside, leaving the streetlights glistening like scattered diamonds across wet pavement. Soft music played from an old record player in the corner — Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, weary and tender, floating like perfume through the dim air.

Jack and Jeeny sat at their usual table by the window, two half-empty cups between them, steam curling upward like unspoken thoughts. The world outside moved in slow motion, lovers huddled under umbrellas, strangers brushing past each other without looking.

On the table between them lay a slip of paper torn from a book, Beatrice Wood’s words written in fading ink:

“And I think maybe all women, if they just had a chance, would be romantic and believe in love and not sex. And men believe in sex and not love.”
— Beatrice Wood

Host: The rain tapped once more, faintly — a rhythm for tension. The candle flame leaned toward Jeeny’s face, softening her expression into something luminous and defiant.

Jeeny: gently tracing the edge of her cup “She was right, you know. Beatrice Wood saw it clearly — how we’re divided not by what we feel, but by how we’re allowed to feel.”

Jack: leaning back, his voice low and gravelly “So you’re saying men don’t believe in love?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “No, Jack. I’m saying they’re not taught to.”

Jack: snorting softly “Taught? You make it sound like emotion’s a school subject.”

Jeeny: meeting his gaze steadily “It should be. Women are trained from birth to romanticize everything — to wait, to hope, to dream. Men are trained to conquer, to act, to want. One learns longing, the other learns hunger.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting his profile in shadow — sharp, masculine, uncertain.

Jack: dryly “And somewhere between the waiting and the wanting, you call it inequality.”

Jeeny: “No, I call it misunderstanding. We mistake desire for connection, and then we wonder why we’re lonely in each other’s arms.”

Jack: looking out the window “You talk like love and sex are enemies.”

Jeeny: softly, with a half-smile “No, they’re siblings. But one was raised with tenderness, and the other with ego.”

Host: The rain began again — light, deliberate, like the tapping of thought against glass.

Jack: after a moment “You think it’s that simple? That women want love and men only want sex?”

Jeeny: shaking her head slowly “It’s not about want — it’s about faith. Women believe in love the way men believe in survival. You see, love requires surrender, and surrender terrifies the ones taught to dominate.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “And you think women aren’t afraid?”

Jeeny: “Of course we are. But we risk it anyway. That’s what makes it romantic — not the dream, but the courage to still hope for it.”

Host: A busker outside struck up a song on his guitar, notes drifting in through the cracked door — minor chords, soft and bruised, like heartache dressed in melody.

Jack: quietly “You know, I think men believe in love too. We just don’t trust it. Every man learns that love can’t be controlled — and that scares the hell out of us.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because control is safer than vulnerability.”

Jack: with a faint smile “And vulnerability is what you call love.”

Jeeny: leaning forward “Yes. Because love without vulnerability isn’t love — it’s transaction.”

Host: The record skipped, then continued — Ella’s voice catching on the word “forever.” Jack took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes thoughtful, the edge of irony softening in his face.

Jack: softly “You know, Beatrice Wood lived past a hundred. She must’ve seen enough of both — the hunger and the hope.”

Jeeny: smiling wistfully “And she still believed women were the romantics.”

Jack: half-smiling “Maybe because she met too many men pretending that love was weakness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The tragedy isn’t that men don’t love — it’s that they hide it behind appetite.”

Jack: gently “And maybe women hide appetite behind love.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Touché.”

Host: The air between them shimmered with that delicate tension — half debate, half intimacy. A stranger might have thought they were lovers, but it wasn’t that simple. It was deeper — two people holding mirrors to each other’s myths.

Jack: quietly “So what’s the cure, then? How do we meet in the middle of all that hiding?”

Jeeny: thoughtfully “By telling the truth about what we want — without shame. By admitting that love and desire can coexist without corrupting each other.”

Jack: leaning in, voice lower “And what do you want, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: holding his gaze “To feel everything. And not apologize for it.”

Host: Silence. Then — the faint hum of a passing car, the sigh of wet tires against asphalt. Jack looked at her for a long time, as if trying to memorize the courage in her face.

Jack: softly “You know... that’s the kind of belief men envy. The ability to love like it’s an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s because it is. For a woman, loving deeply in a world that commodifies her body — that’s revolution.”

Jack: with a hint of awe “And for a man?”

Jeeny: after a pause “For a man, loving deeply is redemption.”

Host: The rain softened again, almost to silence. The candles burned lower, flickering like the last heartbeat of an argument that had turned into something gentler.

Jack: finally “Maybe Beatrice Wood was half-right. Maybe women are romantic because they have to be. Maybe men could be too — if we ever stopped running from tenderness.”

Jeeny: whispering “Then maybe it’s time to stop.”

Host: The camera lingered on them — two figures framed by candlelight, not as opposites, but as reflections. Outside, the rain drew silver lines down the glass, as if the world itself were weeping with recognition.

And as the music faded, Beatrice Wood’s words echoed through the dim café — not accusation, but invitation:

That love and desire are not adversaries,
but mirrors of the same longing;
that women, taught to dream,
and men, taught to survive,
can only find one another
when they risk both.

And in that moment —
beneath flickering light and soft rain —
Jack and Jeeny understood:
to love is not to conquer,
but to surrender beautifully.