Don't get the impression that you arouse my anger. You see, one

Host: The night was heavy with the scent of rain and diesel, the kind that clings to the streets long after the storm has passed. A neon sign flickered above a half-empty diner, its buzzing light bathing the cracked booth seats in pale blue. The clock over the counter ticked with a slow, almost judicial rhythm.
Jack sat with his coat collar turned up, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, the smoke curling into the dim air like a confession. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the ceramic.

Host: Outside, the rainwater ran through the gutters, carrying the city’s dust toward the dark. Inside, the air was tense — a fragile calm before words turned into wounds.

Jeeny: “Richard Nixon once said, ‘Don’t get the impression that you arouse my anger. You see, one can only be angry with those he respects.’”
Her voice was calm, but her eyes glimmered with curiosity. “What do you think, Jack? Do you believe anger comes from respect?”

Jack: “No,” he said, exhaling a thin trail of smoke. “Anger comes from disappointment. And disappointment comes from expectation. Respect’s got nothing to do with it.”

Jeeny: “But why would we feel disappointment unless we expected something from someone we believed in?”

Host: Jack gave a short, humorless laugh, his jaw tightening slightly. The ash from his cigarette fell like gray snow onto the table.

Jack: “You can expect things from fools too, Jeeny. Doesn’t mean you respect them. I’ve been angry at people I despised — politicians, bosses, even strangers who cut in line. You think that’s respect?”

Jeeny: “Not the kind Nixon meant. He wasn’t talking about irritation; he meant the deep kind of anger — the kind that shakes you because you care. That only happens with respect.”

Jack: “Care,” he muttered, staring into his coffee. “That’s the word people hide behind when they can’t admit they’re controlling someone. They call it caring, but really, it’s pride wearing a softer face.”

Host: The neon light blinked again, its pulse echoing the rhythm of their breathing. Somewhere in the back, a radio hummed an old jazz tune, the melody thin and melancholic.

Jeeny: “You’re cynical tonight.”

Jack: “I’m realistic. Look, Nixon was a man who lied, spied, and still talked about respect. That quote wasn’t philosophy — it was self-justification. He couldn’t handle that people hated him, so he turned it into a badge of honor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even the flawed can speak truth. Think about it — we don’t get truly angry with people beneath us, do we? We dismiss them. But when someone we value betrays us, the anger cuts deeper. Because we believed they were better.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like fog, soft but suffocating. Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers, a faint spark of resistance glinting in the gray.

Jack: “You’re saying anger is a compliment?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. It’s proof of connection. You can’t feel betrayed by someone you never trusted. Anger is a mirror that reflects how much we once admired.”

Jack: “Then what about those who start wars out of anger? You think they respect their enemies too?”

Jeeny: “Some do. Strange as it sounds. Great rivals often respect each other more than allies do. Think of Mandela — he said he respected his captors because he understood them. His anger at injustice wasn’t hatred; it was rooted in respect for what humanity could be.”

Jack: “Mandela was rare. Most people’s anger comes from ego, not empathy.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe ego and empathy are closer than we think.”

Host: A bus roared past outside, its headlights flashing through the window, illuminating their faces for a heartbeat — Jack’s drawn and weathered, Jeeny’s steady and luminous.

Jack: “You think too kindly of people, Jeeny. Anger’s just energy — raw, ugly energy. You don’t need respect to feel it. You just need friction.”

Jeeny: “But friction doesn’t hurt unless something matters.”

Host: The diner’s door creaked as a waitress refilled their cups, then disappeared again. The sound of the pouring coffee seemed to bridge the silence between them — that quiet, dangerous silence of two people circling the truth.

Jeeny: “You once told me you stopped talking to your brother after the inheritance fight.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. “What about it?”

Jeeny: “You said you weren’t angry — that you didn’t care. But your voice trembled when you said it. Maybe you were angry because you still respected him.”

Jack: “No,” he said sharply, the word cutting through the air. “I was angry because he lied. He twisted everything. You can’t respect someone who plays dirty.”

Jeeny: “But you still wanted him to tell the truth. That’s respect hiding in pain.”

Jack: “Or delusion.”

Jeeny: “No. Anger is the last thread we hold before indifference. Once it breaks, all feeling dies.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she lifted her cup, and Jack noticed. His brows furrowed — something in him softening, the edge blurring.

Jack: “So when you’re angry at me… that’s because you respect me?”

Jeeny smiled faintly. “You finally got it.”

Jack: “That’s twisted logic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the heart doesn’t deal in logic.”

Host: The cigarette in Jack’s hand had burned to its end, the ash long and fragile. He pressed it into the tray, the sound like a small sigh.

Jack: “You know, maybe Nixon wasn’t completely wrong. Anger and respect are tangled — one can feed the other. But what if anger corrupts respect?”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it stay. True respect survives after anger fades. Like after a storm — if something still stands, it was real.”

Jack: “So you’re saying anger is just a test?”

Jeeny: “Yes. A test of what was built on truth.”

Host: The neon sign outside buzzed louder, struggling against the darkness. A car horn echoed faintly in the distance. The city seemed to pause with them, listening.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why it hurts most when good people fail us. Because we still respect what they could have been.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why forgiveness isn’t weakness — it’s the recognition that respect is still alive beneath the ashes.”

Host: For a long moment, they both sat without speaking. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving only the faint sound of dripping water from the awning outside.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that the people who never get angry are the ones who’ve stopped caring?”

Jack: “Yeah,” he said quietly. “They’re already dead inside.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe anger, at its best, is just love’s shadow.”

Host: The words settled like a benediction. Jack looked down, then back at her — and for the first time, he smiled, tired but genuine.

Jack: “You always manage to turn my cynicism into something poetic.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to balance you out.”

Host: A faint light broke through the diner’s window, pale dawn creeping in from behind the buildings. The streets shimmered wet and gold, as if the world itself was trying to forgive the night.

Jack: “So anger, respect, love — they’re all the same story, aren’t they?”

Jeeny: “Different verses of the same song.”

Host: The camera would linger now — on the steam rising from two untouched cups, on the slow smile that bridged their silence, on the fragile peace found not in the absence of anger, but in its quiet understanding.

Host: Because perhaps Nixon, for all his contradictions, had stumbled onto something real — that to be angry is to have once believed, and to believe is the deepest form of respect a heart can offer.

Host: Outside, the city woke, restless and alive. And in that cracked old diner, two souls sat beneath the flickering light, their anger turned — finally — into a kind of reverence.