Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one.

Host: The sky was the color of steel that evening, a bruised kind of blue that pressed against the windows of the small office like a storm about to break. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow on scattered papers, coffee stains, and the slow decay of ambition.

Jack sat behind his desk — shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, the faint tremor of exhaustion hidden beneath his practiced calm. The office smelled of rain, ink, and arguments that had lasted too long. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her arms folded, her reflection trembling faintly in the glass as the first drops of rain began to fall.

Host: It was after hours. The world outside was winding down, but something in this room was just beginning to ignite.

Jeeny: “Benjamin Franklin once said, ‘Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “He also flew a kite in a lightning storm. Man knew something about bad ideas.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “You mean he understood risk.”

Jack: “No. He understood curiosity. The kind that burns things down when you’re not careful.”

Host: The rain outside quickened, its sound like static filling the space between them. Jeeny turned, leaning against the window, her face caught in the flickering city lights — equal parts defiance and calm.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack. What’s your reason this time?”

Jack: (glances up sharply) “For what?”

Jeeny: “For being angry. It’s written all over your face.”

Jack: (gruffly) “You mean tired.”

Jeeny: “No, I mean angry. You can hide it from everyone else, but not me.”

Host: A pause — the kind that thickens the air, makes every heartbeat louder. Jack’s eyes met hers; his jaw tightened, the truth pressing just behind his teeth.

Jack: “I fired two people today. Good people. Not because they did anything wrong — because the numbers said I had to. You tell me, Jeeny, is that supposed to come without anger?”

Jeeny: “No. But is it supposed to live there forever?”

Jack: “You think I want it?”

Jeeny: “I think you feed it.”

Host: The rain pounded harder now, turning the window into a mirror of moving silver. The city’s reflection seemed to pulse with their tension — every passing car light a flash of unresolved thought.

Jack: “You make it sound like anger’s some pet I keep in a cage. It’s not. It’s survival.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s armor. And the longer you wear it, the more it starts to fit.”

Jack: “You don’t get it, Jeeny. Some of us don’t have the luxury of calm. When things go wrong, someone has to stay sharp — even if it means staying mad.”

Jeeny: “Sharp or scarred, Jack? There’s a difference.”

Host: She walked to his desk, her steps soft but deliberate, her presence drawing the room’s gravity toward her. Jack’s hand twitched, a quiet motion of restraint — as though her nearness dared him to feel something other than rage.

Jeeny: “Franklin wasn’t saying anger’s wrong. He was saying it’s rarely right. There’s a reason behind every outburst — but that doesn’t mean the reason’s good enough.”

Jack: “So you think all anger’s useless?”

Jeeny: “No. But most of it’s misplaced. It’s fear pretending to be strength.”

Host: The thunder outside rolled, deep and low, as if the world itself was agreeing with her. Jack’s silhouette against the flickering light seemed older now — a man both burdened and burning.

Jack: “You ever been pushed past breaking, Jeeny? Ever been told to stay calm while watching everything you’ve built crumble?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes.”

Jack: (surprised) “When?”

Jeeny: “When I watched my father get sick and the hospital cared more about insurance than his life. When I realized my anger couldn’t save him — only exhaust me. That’s when I learned Franklin was right. There’s always a reason — but it rarely helps.”

Host: Her voice cracked at the edges, but her eyes stayed steady, fierce in their stillness. Jack looked away, unable to hold her gaze, his anger suddenly humbled by the quiet strength in her pain.

Jack: “So what did you do with it?”

Jeeny: “I learned to let it speak — and then shut it up when it said too much.”

Jack: “You make that sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. It’s daily surgery. Without anesthesia.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a misty drizzle. The harsh light from the desk lamp warmed, diffused through the steam of their breath and the tension that hadn’t yet broken.

Jack: “You think Franklin ever got angry?”

Jeeny: (laughs quietly) “Of course he did. He just learned to be curious about it instead of consumed by it.”

Jack: “Curious?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Ask it questions. Don’t just obey it. Like—‘Why am I angry? Who does it serve?’ If the answer’s just yourself, it’s not a good reason.”

Jack: “What if it’s about justice?”

Jeeny: “Then prove it’s justice — not pride.”

Host: The clock ticked, echoing in the narrow room. Each second felt like a small truth — relentless, honest, inescapable.

Jack: “You always think anger’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s sacred when it’s pure — and poisonous when it’s not.”

Jack: “So what’s mine?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “It’s both.”

Host: That word hung between them, the air around it trembling like a plucked string. The thunder had drifted farther now, leaving only the sound of rain sliding down the glass — soft, cleansing, almost kind.

Jack: “You know what the worst part is? Sometimes anger feels like the only thing that listens.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s the only thing that never interrupts you. But it never answers either.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands trembling slightly as he rubbed his eyes. His voice was quieter now — not beaten, but tired, worn from carrying too much too long.

Jack: “I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I stop being angry, I’ll stop caring.”

Jeeny: “Then let me tell you a secret.”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to be angry to care. You just have to hurt honestly.”

Host: The words settled on him like light rain — unexpected, cooling. He looked at her then, not as a colleague or a critic, but as someone who had walked through fire and somehow come out gentle.

Jack: “And if I can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep trying until you can. Because that’s what goodness is — not the absence of anger, but the control of it.”

Host: The storm outside had nearly ended. The city gleamed — puddles like mirrors, streetlights flickering over damp pavement. The tension in the room began to dissolve, slowly, like sugar in hot tea.

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You always turn my explosions into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Only because you keep mistaking dynamite for warmth.”

Jack: (chuckles softly) “Touché.”

Host: She walked to the door, her hand resting on the handle, but before she left, she turned, her eyes soft, her voice steady.

Jeeny: “You don’t need a good reason to be angry, Jack. You just need a better reason to stop.”

Host: The door clicked shut, leaving him alone with the dim light, the fading rain, and his own reflection — a man learning, slowly, that not all storms come to destroy.

He stood, walked to the window, and watched the last of the rain slide down the glass — thin silver threads dissolving into the city’s glow.

For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel angry.
Just… aware.

And somewhere beyond the city’s hum, the night finally exhaled — calm, unburdened, whole again.