Dating is for tools.

Host: The bar was dim, lit by the lazy glow of amber bulbs hanging from rusted chains. The air was thick with the smell of whiskey, old wood, and something like regret. Rain drummed against the windows, a rhythm that felt both familiar and tired — like the soundtrack to a confession.

Jack sat at the counter, fingers wrapped around a glass of bourbon, his reflection warping in the liquid. Jeeny entered, her coat clinging to her shoulders, hair glistening with the remnants of the storm. She spotted him instantly. They didn’t need words — just history.

She walked over, set her bag down, and smiled that tired, knowing smile that says we’ve been here before.

Jeeny: “Neil Strauss once said, ‘Dating is for tools.’”

Jack: (smirking) “He would say that. The guy wrote The Game, didn’t he?”

Jeeny: “He did. And maybe that’s why it hits so hard. He spent years mastering seduction, and then realized how empty it all was. Maybe ‘dating is for tools’ isn’t about mockery — it’s about mourning.”

Host: Jack’s brow arched, the light catching in his grey eyes. The bar hummed softly with the sound of an old jukebox, some country song about love that never lasted.

Jack: “Mourning? No, Jeeny. It’s truth wrapped in sarcasm. He’s saying what everyone’s too polite to admit — that modern dating is a performance, a transaction, not a connection. Everyone’s a salesman, pitching a version of themselves.”

Jeeny: “And yet, everyone’s still searching, Jack. That has to mean something. People aren’t just performing for the sake of it — they’re trying, even if they’re doing it wrong. Isn’t there something beautiful in that?”

Jack: “Beautiful? Maybe pathetic. We’ve turned romance into branding. You go on a date now, and it’s like an interview. What do you do? What’s your trauma? What are your goals for the next five years?”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with asking those things? They’re trying to know each other.”

Jack: “No, they’re trying to assess each other. They’re evaluating, not feeling. Dating isn’t about connection anymore — it’s about risk management. People don’t fall in love; they calculate it.”

Host: The bartender passed by, refilling Jack’s glass. Jeeny took a sip of water, her fingers tapping the table, eyes locked on him. There was tension — not just in words, but in memory.

Jeeny: “You always talk like love’s a business, Jack. Like it’s some commodity traded on a stock market of emotion.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? We swipe, filter, compare. We measure worth in profiles, likes, and responses. Dating apps have turned love into data, and we’re all tools in the system — feeding it, hoping for meaning.”

Jeeny: “But Neil Strauss wasn’t talking about apps. He was talking about the mindset — the people who treat dating like a game instead of a gift. When he said ‘dating is for tools,’ he meant those who use it to manipulate, to win, to feed their ego. He wasn’t condemning love — he was warning us about vanity.”

Jack: “Maybe. But tell me, Jeeny — how do you even separate vanity from love anymore? When every gesture is posted, every confession is curated for likes?”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You choose. You decide to love anyway, despite the noise, despite the performance. Real love isn’t found, Jack — it’s built, brick by brick, in the dark, without the audience.”

Host: The rain softened, the drops sliding down the window like tears that refused to fall. The light outside flickered, casting their shadows across the bar — two souls, half-lit, half-broken.

Jack: “You still believe in that, huh? In love that’s quiet, pure, untouched by technology or pride?”

Jeeny: “I believe in what’s left after the games end. Even Neil Strauss did. After all the lies, the pick-up lines, the techniques, he fell in love. With someone who saw past all that. That’s why he wrote The Truth — it was his redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption…” (laughs) “You think love redeems people?”

Jeeny: “I think love reveals them. It strips the masks. That’s what he meant, Jack. Dating is for tools — because those who chase the appearance of love never reach the substance. They’re too busy pretending to be worthy of it.”

Jack: “And what about the rest of us — the ones who’ve tried and failed? Are we all just tools too?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re the workshop — the place where love is still being forged.”

Host: Jack laughed, but there was no humor in it. He looked down, fingers tight on the glass, his voice a rasp of something that sounded like truth trying to escape.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I used to be good at this — the dates, the talk, the charm. I thought I was winning. But every time, I’d go home, and the silence would mock me. Turns out, I wasn’t dating anyone. I was just marketing myself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what he meant — that dating, as we practice it, has become a mirror for our insecurities. It’s not connection; it’s compensation. We’re all trying to fill something we don’t understand.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative?”

Jeeny: “To stop selling. To stop auditioning. To show up — raw, messy, flawed. Love starts where the performance ends.”

Host: The bar had grown quiet, the music a low hum of guitar and memory. Jack turned, studying her face — the soft lines, the eyes that didn’t need proof to believe.

Jack: “You think anyone’s capable of that anymore?”

Jeeny: “I think some are. The ones tired enough of being tools to finally be true.”

Host: Jack nodded, slowly, as if something in him had finally bent, not broken. He raised his glass, a mock toast, but his smile was sincere.

Jack: “To the ones who stopped playing.”

Jeeny: “To the ones who started feeling.”

Host: Outside, the rain ceased. A faint light from a distant streetlamp cut through the dark, catching on the wet pavement — a silver thread between loneliness and hope.

The bartender switched off the jukebox, and for the first time that night, there was silence — the kind that doesn’t demand, only listens.

And in that silence, Jack and Jeeny sat,
no longer tools, no longer players,
just two souls, finally unarmed,
finally real.