Change of weather is the discourse of fools.

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city wrapped in a wet stillness. Streetlights shimmered on the pavement, their golden glow fractured in the puddles like broken memories. A small café hummed with quiet jazz, the air thick with the scent of coffee and after-rain. Jack sat by the window, his reflection merged with the blurred world outside — a man half in the real, half in his thoughts. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, the steam rising between them like a fragile veil of warmth.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, indifferent to time or weather. Outside, umbrellas closed and footsteps quickened; inside, two souls lingered in the hush between storms.

Jeeny: “Thomas Fuller once said, ‘Change of weather is the discourse of fools.’” She lifted her eyes, soft, reflective. “I think he meant that those who only talk about the surface of life — about sunshine or rain, about the pleasant and trivial — are afraid of the depths beneath.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or maybe he just hated small talk, Jeeny. I can relate to that. The world is full of people who chatter about the sky because they have nothing real to say.”

Host: The light from a passing car flashed across Jack’s face, tracing the sharp edges of his jaw, the tiredness beneath his eyes. He sipped his coffee — bitter, black, unflinching.

Jeeny: “You say that as if silence were better. But maybe talking about the weather isn’t foolish at all. Maybe it’s a way to connect — to bridge the awkwardness between strangers.”

Jack: “Connect? Talking about rainfall doesn’t connect anyone. It just fills the void. It’s a way to avoid what matters — death, love, failure, the mess of being human.”

Jeeny: “And yet,” she said softly, “those small words — ‘Cold today, isn’t it?’ — sometimes open the door to something deeper. Think of two neighbors who never speak until one mentions the storm, and suddenly they’re helping each other fix a leak, or sharing soup. Isn’t that real too?”

Host: A faint wind brushed the window, carrying the smell of wet concrete and distant smoke. Jack leaned back, folding his arms, his expression half amused, half defensive.

Jack: “You romanticize everything, Jeeny. The world’s not that sentimental. Most people talk about the weather because they can’t bear silence — because if they stopped talking, they’d have to listen to the emptiness inside.”

Jeeny: “And you believe the answer is to fill that emptiness with cynicism?”

Jack: “No. I just think honesty beats pretense. People pretend to care about each other, but they don’t. Look at the office, the streets, the social media — everyone’s ‘connected,’ and yet they’re more alone than ever.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that precisely why even the smallest conversation matters? A word, a smile, a moment of recognition — it keeps us human. You remember after the war, in London, when people rebuilt their lives from ashes? They greeted each other with, ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ even as the city was still in ruins. It wasn’t foolishness; it was hope disguised as casualness.”

Host: The rain began again, a gentle, persistent tapping against the glass — like fingers insisting on being heard. Jack’s gaze drifted to the street, where a woman pulled her coat tighter, her child skipping beside her. He exhaled slowly.

Jack: “Hope. That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s the only thing that survives when everything else breaks.”

Jack: “Fuller called it the ‘discourse of fools,’ Jeeny. He meant people who can’t confront truth. Look around — climate, politics, economy — people talk about ‘bad weather’ while the world burns. Isn’t that foolish? We talk about clouds instead of the fires under our feet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we need both. If we only speak of fire, we’ll forget how to see the sky.”

Host: A pause. The clock ticked louder, the silence between them thick as fog. Jeeny’s fingers brushed the rim of her cup, tracing circles that rippled faintly in the tea. Jack’s hand clenched, then loosened, as if grasping something unseen.

Jeeny: “You think talking about the weather is a distraction. I think it’s a metaphor. Every storm, every breeze, every shift in the air — it’s how people talk about their moods, their fears, without naming them. When someone says, ‘It’s a dark day,’ they might be talking about their heart.”

Jack: “So the weather’s a code for emotion? That’s poetic, but too generous. Some people really just care about their umbrellas.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And yet even that care — that concern for comfort — is human. The ‘discourse of fools’ is also the language of survival. We speak of storms because we all live through them.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, like the wind that brushed against the door. Jack watched her, his expression softening. Outside, the rain thickened, drumming like memory. The café grew warmer, almost intimate.

Jack: “You make it sound noble — this small talk. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s an escape. Like people during the pandemic, you remember? Everyone talking about the weather, or sourdough, or gardens — anything but death. As if pretending life was still normal would stop the fear.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what kept them alive, Jack. Pretending — no, hoping — that normalcy would return. That the sun would rise again. Those conversations about bread or rain were ways to stay human, not hide from being human.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because the ‘discourse of fools’ is also the wisdom of hearts that refuse to die.”

Host: Jack stared at her, the edges of his defense melting under the heat of her conviction. The steam from their cups mingled in the air, like two souls unsure where one ended and the other began.

Jack: “Maybe Fuller was just tired — tired of listening to people who never got to the point. But maybe he missed it — maybe he didn’t see that the small things are the point.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The weather is the world’s way of reminding us that everything changes — and that we change too.”

Jack: “So we’re all fools, then?”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Yes. But blessed ones.”

Host: A sudden flash of lightning lit their faces — hers gentle, illuminated by belief; his scarred, caught between doubt and recognition. The rain eased, then stopped, as if listening.

Jack: “You know, I used to think talking about the weather was a way to avoid meaning. But maybe it’s how we practice meaning — in small, harmless doses.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, Jack. Maybe every casual word is a rehearsal for the real ones.”

Host: They both smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that comes not from agreement, but from understanding. The café seemed to brighten, though the sky outside remained gray. A child’s laughter echoed from the street, and somewhere, a busker’s guitar strummed a soft, tender tune.

Jack: “So the next time someone says, ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’, I shouldn’t roll my eyes?”

Jeeny: “You should answer, ‘Yes, and I hope it stays that way.’ Because maybe they’re not asking about the weather — maybe they’re asking if the world is still kind.”

Host: Jack chuckled, the sound low, almost melancholic, yet strangely light. He looked outside — at the clearing sky, at the sunlight breaking timidly through clouds.

Jack: “Then I suppose Fuller was wrong.”

Jeeny: “Or perhaps he was right — but only half.”

Jack: “And we’re living in the other half.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. Sunlight spread slowly across the wet streets, turning the puddles into mirrors of gold. Jack and Jeeny sat in quiet, their hands near but not touching, their eyes reflecting the changing light — a silent acknowledgment that even the most foolish talk can hold a truth the wise often forget.

Host: Outside, a breeze lifted a fallen leaf, carried it upward, and let it go.