Expressing anger is a form of public littering.

Host: The morning had barely broken, yet the city was already awake — restless, humming with traffic and tension. The sky was low and gray, the kind of gray that promised rain but refused to commit. Inside a crowded downtown café, the smell of burnt espresso and wet pavement filled the air. People muttered over their phones, baristas clanged cups, and the neon “OPEN” sign buzzed like a fly trapped in light.

At the far corner table, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, his coffee untouched. The paper beside him was crumpled, smeared with ink and irritation. Jeeny sat across from him, calm but alert — the kind of calm that isn’t absence of emotion, but control of it.

Pinned to the corkboard behind the counter was a quote, printed on cheap paper:
“Expressing anger is a form of public littering.” — Willard Gaylin.

Someone had underlined the words public littering in blue pen.

It was almost poetic, in a city already choking on noise.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that quote for ten minutes, Jack.”

Jack: “Because it’s nonsense.”

Jeeny: “You don’t think there’s truth in it?”

Jack: “No. I think it’s moral sanitizing. Like telling someone to sweep their emotions under the rug to keep the street clean.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s about discipline — not repression.”

Jack: “Oh, don’t start with that. Every time someone says ‘discipline,’ they mean ‘don’t make others uncomfortable.’”

Host: Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, her spoon making faint, circular sounds, like a clock’s heartbeat.

Jeeny: “Sometimes anger is litter, Jack. You throw it around, it lands on everyone near you. It doesn’t solve anything; it just makes a mess.”

Jack: “Then what are we supposed to do? Bottle it up? Swallow the poison and smile?”

Jeeny: “No. Dispose of it properly.”

Host: Jack gave a short, humorless laugh — the kind that hides a bruise.

Jack: “Properly. Like recycling emotions? You can’t legislate rage, Jeeny. It’s human. When people are angry, it means something’s broken.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not everything broken has to be screamed about in public.”

Jack: “You ever watch the news? Protests, debates, riots, people fighting to be heard — you think that’s littering? Sometimes shouting is the only language power understands.”

Jeeny: “I think there’s a difference between using your anger and dumping it on others.”

Host: A nearby customer spilled their drink; the barista cursed softly, grabbed napkins. The noise wrapped around them — movement, voices, steam hissing from the espresso machine. The café felt alive, chaotic, human — everything Gaylin’s quote seemed to condemn.

Jack: “You know what I think? That quote was written by someone afraid of passion. Afraid of emotion that doesn’t fit inside polite conversation.”

Jeeny: “Or someone who’s seen what happens when people let rage run their mouths. Look around, Jack. Everyone’s angry. Online, on the street, in traffic — it’s constant. We’ve turned fury into performance art.”

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Whisper your anger into a pillow?”

Jeeny: “No. Refine it. Anger can be fuel. But you — you treat it like gasoline at a campfire. Loud, hot, gone in minutes.”

Host: The light shifted through the window, brushing Jeeny’s hair with a dull gold shimmer. Jack leaned forward, his eyes narrowed, more wounded than furious.

Jack: “You think my anger’s just noise?”

Jeeny: “I think your anger has truth in it — but you scatter it until no one can find it.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because nobody listens until something breaks.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true.”

Jack: “It is. You know the first time I got promoted? After I exploded. After I told them what I’d been holding in for months. The system only reacts when it’s shaken.”

Jeeny: “And what did it cost you?”

Jack: “Respect. Maybe a little dignity. But at least they heard me.”

Jeeny: “And forgot everything else you said.”

Host: Her words cut through the air, quiet but lethal. Jack looked down, his fingers tightening around his cup. The ceramic squeaked against his palm.

Jeeny: “Gaylin wasn’t saying not to feel anger. He was saying that when you dump it out there — raw, unprocessed — it doesn’t reach anyone. It just pollutes the space.”

Jack: “Then what are we supposed to do with it? Anger’s not recyclable, Jeeny. It doesn’t vanish when you tidy your tone.”

Jeeny: “It transforms. If you let it.”

Jack: “Into what? Silence?”

Jeeny: “No. Into focus. Into action that doesn’t leave debris behind.”

Host: Outside, the drizzle had stopped. The streetlights flickered off, and a faint sunbeam slipped through the window, striking the quote behind them. Public littering. The blue ink shimmered faintly.

Jack: “You talk like emotion’s a utility bill — like it’s controllable.”

Jeeny: “It’s not controllable. It’s accountable. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And what if you’re furious because no one’s accountable for anything else?”

Jeeny: “Then you hold yourself accountable first.”

Jack: “That’s convenient.”

Jeeny: “It’s necessary.”

Host: The café had quieted now. The morning rush had passed; only a few patrons lingered — a woman typing furiously on her laptop, an old man reading the paper, two teenagers arguing softly in the corner. The air was calmer, but not empty.

Jeeny: “Look, Jack. Anger’s not evil. It’s just loud. Too loud, sometimes. It drowns out what it’s trying to defend.”

Jack: “You ever think that’s why people raise their voices — because the world’s deaf?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But yelling doesn’t make it listen longer. It just makes it flinch.”

Host: The steam wand hissed again, cutting through the air like a sigh. Jack leaned back, rubbing his temples. His voice softened.

Jack: “You really think expressing anger is littering?”

Jeeny: “I think uncontrolled anger is. When you throw it into the world without thought, it sticks to everything — like trash on a windy street. Everyone ends up stepping in it.”

Jack: “And the alternative?”

Jeeny: “Pick it up. Look at it. Find out what it’s really made of before you toss it around.”

Host: For the first time all morning, Jack laughed — quietly, bitterly, but there was something else underneath: release.

Jack: “You make it sound like therapy with a recycling bin.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Jack: “And what about righteous anger? Injustice, cruelty, corruption — all that’s supposed to stay bottled up so we don’t mess the pavement?”

Jeeny: “No. That kind of anger has a target, a reason, a purpose. It’s not litter. It’s protest art. Gaylin meant the other kind — the kind we fling just to feel lighter.”

Jack: “You’re saying we should edit our emotions.”

Jeeny: “No, curate them.”

Host: A small silence followed — warm, not cold this time. Jack took a sip of his coffee, grimaced at its bitterness, and smiled anyway.

Jack: “You know, if I’d heard that quote yesterday, I’d have torn it off the wall.”

Jeeny: “And today?”

Jack: “I’d leave it up. But I’d add a line.”

Jeeny: “Which one?”

Jack: “‘Pick up your own trash before you complain about the mess.’”

Jeeny: “Fair enough.”

Host: The sunlight had grown stronger now, cutting clean lines across their table. Jeeny leaned back, her face softening. The sound of the café returned — light, human, familiar.

Jack: “You really think we can change the way people express anger?”

Jeeny: “No. But we can change the way we carry it.”

Jack: “And if it slips out?”

Jeeny: “Then own it. Clean it up. Don’t leave it for someone else to step in.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — wide, steady, framing them in morning light. The world outside moved again: a woman laughing on her phone, a cab splashing through puddles, a dog barking somewhere unseen.

The quote on the wall fluttered once more, caught in a draft, and seemed to whisper through the hum of life:

"Anger isn’t the crime. Leaving it lying around is."

And in that moment, as Jack and Jeeny shared the quiet peace of mutual understanding, the city — for once — felt just a little cleaner.