Beauty is often worse than wine; intoxicating both the holder and

Host: The evening bled slowly into night, the city below already half-asleep, its windows glimmering like faint embers in a dying fire. From the rooftop of a small, forgotten apartment building, the air smelled faintly of rain, metal, and memory. The sky was bruised purple, the kind of color that feels like it could whisper secrets if you looked at it long enough.

Jeeny sat cross-legged on the ledge, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes lost somewhere between the skyline and the stars that dared to peek through the haze. Jack leaned against the rail behind her, cigarette in hand, the faint glow of it pulsing like a heartbeat in the dark.

For a long time, neither spoke. The world hummed below them — quiet but restless, like a sleeper stirring from a dream.

Jeeny: “John Zimmerman once said, ‘Beauty is often worse than wine; intoxicating both the holder and beholder.’”

Jack: “Sounds like something you’d say after your second glass.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s true, isn’t it? Beauty does that. Makes fools of both the ones who possess it and the ones who chase it.”

Host: Jack took a drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a question. He exhaled slowly, watching it drift upward — a brief, fragile ghost against the night.

Jack: “You’re giving beauty too much credit. It’s just symmetry and light. Biology dressed as poetry.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s all it is?”

Jack: “That’s all it’s ever been. Nature’s trick — make something pleasant to look at, keep the species going. It’s manipulation with good lighting.”

Jeeny: “You say that like you’ve never been moved by it.”

Jack: “I’ve been distracted by it. There’s a difference.”

Host: The wind picked up slightly, rustling the empty bottles and papers on the ledge. Jeeny’s hair swept across her face, and she brushed it aside with a small, distracted gesture — one that caught Jack’s attention, though he pretended otherwise.

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I’m sober.”

Jeeny: “No one’s sober around beauty, Jack. That’s Zimmerman’s point. It doesn’t just make us want — it makes us lose control. We either worship it or destroy it. There’s no middle ground.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and dry.

Jack: “And you’d know?”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it happen. A beautiful person walks into a room, and suddenly reason collapses. You’ve seen it too — how people change when they’re looked at like they’re the center of gravity.”

Jack: “Yeah. I’ve also seen how fast gravity turns to envy. Beauty’s a debt. Sooner or later, someone collects.”

Host: The neon sign from the building across the street flickered red, spilling its glow over them, tinting her skin in the same shade as the wine she held. Jeeny took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving him.

Jeeny: “So what? We stop admiring? Pretend it doesn’t affect us?”

Jack: “No. We just stop pretending it’s holy. People kill for beauty, lie for it, ruin each other’s lives chasing it. If wine numbs the body, beauty poisons the soul.”

Jeeny: “Or it awakens it.”

Jack: “You’d call drowning an awakening?”

Jeeny: “If the drowning feels like flying — yes.”

Host: There was a moment then — small but electric — where silence filled with meaning. Jack’s gaze softened, though his words hadn’t. The city lights blinked like distant witnesses, the wind brushing their faces as if to remind them that time was still moving.

Jack: “You’ve always been too poetic for your own good.”

Jeeny: “And you’ve always been too afraid to admit poetry’s the only truth that scares you.”

Host: He didn’t answer. His eyes drifted away, toward the glass in her hand.

Jack: “You ever think about what beauty costs the beautiful? Everyone wants a piece of you, and once they’ve taken it, there’s nothing left but reflection.”

Jeeny: “You think pity makes you wiser?”

Jack: “No. Just realistic. Look at the world — fame, fashion, followers. People devour beauty until there’s nothing left but filters and ghosts.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that our fault? Not beauty’s? Beauty never asked to be worshipped — we chose that. Maybe the problem isn’t in what we see; it’s in how we look.”

Host: The rain began to fall — not hard, but soft, lazy droplets that caught the glow of the neon and fell like tiny embers. Jeeny tilted her face up, letting one land on her cheek.

Jeeny: “You can’t hate beauty for being powerful, Jack. It’s like blaming fire for burning. The same fire that destroys can also keep you warm.”

Jack: “Tell that to Icarus.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t die because he flew too high. He died because he forgot why he wanted to fly.”

Host: The wind shifted again, carrying the faint hum of distant sirens. Jack crushed his cigarette underfoot, the last spark dying like the end of an argument.

Jack: “You think beauty redeems people?”

Jeeny: “I think it reveals them. Beauty doesn’t make people shallow; it shows them what they already are. You can fall in love with it, or you can try to possess it — either way, it exposes you.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I used to chase beauty like it could save me. Now I just let it sit next to me, the way you’d sit beside a flame. Close enough to feel alive, far enough not to burn.”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — the way a man looks when he’s trying not to confess something. The rain darkened his shirt, but he didn’t move. The world felt suddenly very still.

Jack: “You ever think maybe you are the flame?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And you’re the one still deciding whether to reach for it.”

Host: A distant thunder rolled, low and languid, like the sound of something ancient remembering itself. Jeeny set her glass down on the ledge, half full, the wine catching the city’s glow — red, alive, trembling.

Jack reached for it, swirling the liquid once before placing it down again.

Jack: “Maybe Zimmerman was wrong. Maybe beauty isn’t worse than wine. Maybe it is wine — intoxicating because it reminds us what it means to feel.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s both. A blessing and a curse. A toast to our desire and our undoing.”

Jack: “You ever think we need both?”

Jeeny: “Of course we do. Without intoxication, the soul goes dry.”

Host: They sat in silence after that, side by side, as the rain fell harder — soft on their faces, sharp against the concrete. The world below blurred into a watercolor of light and motion.

Jack glanced at her again — the curve of her smile, the stillness in her eyes, the fragile fire of being alive. He wanted to say something — maybe everything — but didn’t.

Jeeny turned to him, as if hearing the thought.

Jeeny: “It’s okay, Jack. Some beauty isn’t meant to be spoken to. Just seen.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them under the open sky, surrounded by rain and neon and silence. The city below breathed like a sleeping giant, unaware that above it, two small souls had just confessed something wordless.

The wine glass, forgotten, filled slowly with rainwater — red fading into clear.

And somewhere in the distance, John Zimmerman’s words lingered like a sigh on the wind:

Beauty intoxicates because it dares us to look — and when we do, we find ourselves drunk not on what we see, but on what we feel.