Contempt is the only asymmetrical expression in the muscular

Host: The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of a single fireplace. The flames cast restless shadows on the cracked walls, bending and twisting like faces frozen mid-expression — anger, laughter, sorrow, deceit. A storm raged outside, the rain clawing at the windows like impatient hands.

In the corner, a mirror stood half-covered by a torn sheet, its edge reflecting slivers of the room — and of Jack, sitting in an old armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His jaw was clenched, his grey eyes sharp and distant.

Across from him, Jeeny sat on the floor, cross-legged beside the fire, a book open in her lap. Her face was calm, but her eyes burned with curiosity — always searching for truth in the fractures of human nature.

On the table between them lay a page, torn from a psychology text, the ink smudged but the words clear:
"Contempt is the only asymmetrical expression in the muscular facial system: Disgust, fear, happiness, surprise and anger typically express themselves symmetrically. Contempt is marked by one lip corner pulled up and in a dismissive sneer." — Pamela Meyer.

Jeeny: “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Of all the emotions we wear, only contempt can’t face itself.”

Jack: “That’s because contempt doesn’t need a mirror.” (He sips his drink.) “It’s not about reflection — it’s about superiority.”

Host: The firelight caught the edge of his cheek, outlining it in a thin line of gold, but his expression remained cold, the muscles rigid, the kind of face carved by too many disappointments.

Jeeny: “You think contempt is born from pride?”

Jack: “No. From disappointment. Pride is what people feel before they care. Contempt is what’s left after they stop.”

Host: A log cracked in the fireplace, sending a spray of embers into the air. Jeeny’s eyes followed them, her lips parting slightly, the beginning of a thought.

Jeeny: “Pamela Meyer said contempt is asymmetrical because it’s half emotion, half judgment. It’s not just feeling — it’s deciding that someone isn’t worth feeling for. Maybe that’s why it’s crooked — because the heart and the face are out of sync.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just anatomy. The body’s way of leaking arrogance.”

Jeeny: “You always strip things of their poetry, don’t you?”

Jack: “I strip them of illusions.”

Host: The storm outside grew louder. A flash of lightning illuminated the room — for a moment, both faces glowed white and hollow, like portraits caught mid-truth.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I think contempt terrifies me?”

Jack: “Because it’s honest?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s irreversible. Anger can be soothed. Sadness can be comforted. But contempt — it means you’ve already decided someone’s beneath forgiveness.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And maybe sometimes they are.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe that.”

Jack: “Oh, I do. You’ve seen what people do — betrayals, lies, cruelty for sport. Sometimes contempt is the only sane response.”

Jeeny: “Sanity doesn’t make it moral.”

Host: The fire flared higher, its light painting Jeeny’s eyes like molten amber — fierce, imploring.

Jack: “You’re too forgiving, Jeeny. You see good where there’s only rot.”

Jeeny: “And you see rot even where there’s still a heartbeat.”

Host: The tension between them thickened, pulsing in the small space like heat between colliding worlds.

Jeeny: “You know, contempt isn’t just about others. Sometimes it’s how we look at ourselves.”

Jack: (quietly) “I don’t follow.”

Jeeny: “Think about it. When you hate someone, you’re still connected to them. When you pity them, you acknowledge their pain. But contempt? It’s distance. Maybe it’s what we use to avoid our own reflection.”

Jack: “So you’re saying when I sneer at someone, I’m sneering at myself?”

Jeeny: “Aren’t you? Maybe that one-sided smirk — that asymmetry — is the face betraying what the soul denies.”

Host: The fire hissed, a brief burst of smoke curling upward, its tendrils twisting like lips mid-sneer.

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny, but people don’t act out of symbolism. They act out of instinct.”

Jeeny: “And instinct often tells truths logic hides.”

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) “You sound like you’ve read too much Jung.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like you’ve lived too little forgiveness.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they cut — the way light cuts shadow.

Jack: “Do you know the last time I felt contempt?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Tell me.”

Jack: “My brother. He borrowed money from me — swore he’d pay it back. Never did. But it wasn’t the lie that stung. It was the way he smiled afterward. Like my trust was a joke he’d already told.”

Jeeny: “And you haven’t spoken since?”

Jack: “No. I can forgive betrayal. But mockery? That’s different. Contempt lives in mockery.”

Host: His hand tightened around the glass until it trembled. The flame reflected in the whiskey — small, distorted, golden — like a trapped soul trying to escape.

Jeeny: “Maybe he smiled because he was ashamed, not amused.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the face doesn’t lie, Jeeny. The mouth twitches, the eyes narrow — contempt tells the truth the tongue won’t.”

Jeeny: “So you believe faces reveal the soul?”

Jack: “I believe they reveal the fractures.”

Host: The thunder rolled again, closer this time. Rain lashed the windows like claws. The fire shuddered but held.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny. Pamela Meyer studies deception, but contempt might be the most honest emotion of all. You can fake a smile, fake surprise, even fake fear — but you can’t fake contempt. The body betrays you.”

Jack: “Because it’s not a performance. It’s a verdict.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A moral verdict disguised as a muscle twitch.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s why it’s asymmetrical. Justice rarely is.”

Host: The firelight flickered across his face, catching a sudden softness, a crack in the armor of cynicism.

Jeeny: “You said contempt is born of disappointment. I think it’s born of grief — grief for the person we hoped someone would be.”

Jack: “So contempt is the corpse of love?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Still warm. Still twitching.”

Host: A long silence followed, filled only by the sound of rain, steady and relentless, like the passage of time itself.

Jack: “You know, I used to think contempt made me strong — above it all. But maybe it just made me smaller. Detached.”

Jeeny: “It’s the illusion of power. You look down on someone long enough, you start shrinking too.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “Humility. Empathy. Maybe even... vulnerability.”

Jack: (grimacing) “You make it sound like weakness.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s the opposite. Contempt is easy. Connection is the hard part.”

Host: Her voice softened, but her gaze was unwavering, a quiet force that disarmed even the most guarded soul.

Jeeny: “Maybe the asymmetry Pamela Meyer described — one side lifted, one side still — it’s not just facial. Maybe it’s spiritual. One side of us wants to rise above, while the other still remembers what it means to kneel.”

Jack: (after a pause) “So contempt is the soul’s limp.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The sign that compassion’s been wounded, but not yet killed.”

Host: The fire began to fade, its embers glowing like small red eyes. Jack leaned forward, watching them flicker out one by one. His reflection shimmered faintly in the mirror, half-hidden under the cloth — half-seen, half-denied.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been carrying contempt because I mistook it for clarity. But contempt doesn’t see truth. It sees distance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It blinds more than it reveals.”

Jack: (whispering) “Then maybe I owe my brother more than silence.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe you owe him an honest face — not symmetrical, not perfect, but real.”

Host: The storm outside began to fade, leaving a hush so deep it felt sacred. The fire was nearly out now, only a thin line of smoke rising toward the ceiling like a final exhale.

Jack: “So contempt — the sneer, the twist of the lip — it’s the body’s way of saying, I’ve forgotten how to love.”

Jeeny: “And forgiveness... is how we teach it again.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the room dim, the mirror still veiled, but the two figures illuminated by the faintest glow from the dying embers.

And as silence reclaimed the space, Pamela Meyer’s words echoed not as science, but as poetry:

"Contempt is asymmetry — not just of the face, but of the heart. One side lifted in pride, the other still waiting to forgive."