Future. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the wide café window, warm and golden, catching on the tiny dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. Outside, the street pulsed with life — horns, voices, laughter — the quiet symphony of a city pretending to know where it’s going. Inside, time seemed to slow. The world reduced itself to the faint hiss of the espresso machine and the rhythmic sound of rain beginning to fall.

Host: Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes distant, watching the reflections of strangers ripple across the glass. Jeeny arrived late — as always — her umbrella dripping, her cheeks flushed from the cold. She smiled softly, set down her notebook, and sat opposite him.

Jeeny: (shaking rain from her hair) “Ambrose Bierce once said, ‘Future. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.’”
(She laughs lightly.) “Isn’t it funny, Jack? He defines the future like a fable — a paradise that never comes.”

Jack: (without looking up) “That’s because it’s a joke, Jeeny. Bierce didn’t write definitions — he wrote ironies. That ‘period of prosperity’ doesn’t exist. The future is where we store our delusions until reality catches up.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But doesn’t every delusion begin as a dream? Maybe it’s not irony — maybe it’s longing disguised as wit.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking down the glass in long, uneven lines. People hurried past, umbrellas bending under the wind, like shadows trying to escape time itself.

Jack: “Longing doesn’t change facts. People always imagine the future as kinder than it’ll be — a kind of emotional inflation. Everyone’s richer, wiser, happier tomorrow. And then tomorrow arrives — and it’s just more bills and broken promises.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “You sound like a man who stopped believing in the sunrise.”

Jack: “I believe in it. I just stopped expecting it to change anything.”

Host: Jeeny stirred her coffee slowly, watching the swirl of cream dissolve into black. The pattern looked like galaxies collapsing — beautiful, transient, and indifferent.

Jeeny: “Then why do you keep coming here, Jack? Every week, same table, same view, same seat? You still look out that window like you’re waiting for something.”

Jack: (finally looking at her) “Maybe I’m waiting for the past to apologize.”

Jeeny: “It won’t.”

Jack: “I know.”

Host: The silence between them was almost comfortable — two veterans of too many broken futures.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Bierce was mocking us — all of humanity. We build the future like a religion, but we worship it like a ghost. We speak of it as though it already owes us something.”

Jack: “And when it doesn’t deliver, we call it fate. Convenient scapegoat.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But there’s still something tragic and beautiful in that hope. The way people keep believing, even after disappointment. Maybe that’s what keeps us human — the refusal to stop expecting better days.”

Jack: “Or it’s what keeps us delusional. Same difference.”

Host: The barista turned up the radio — an old Ella Fitzgerald song crackled through the speakers, her voice soft and aching: ‘Into each life some rain must fall…’

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to believe that happiness wasn’t something you arrive at. It was something you notice along the way.”

Jack: “Your grandmother didn’t live through three recessions.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “No, but she lived through war. And yet, she could still hum while making tea.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a quiet drizzle. The window reflections blurred the world outside into a watercolor — people moving like ghosts through smears of color and light.

Jeeny: “Bierce’s future isn’t a promise — it’s a mirror. It shows us what we wish were true about ourselves. That our affairs are finally in order, our friendships unbroken, our hearts satisfied. He’s saying that hope is always future tense — it never lives in the present.”

Jack: “That’s because the present’s too small for happiness. It’s messy, unpredictable, full of loose ends. The future’s neat. Clean. It’s the story we tell ourselves before the plot twists.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we keep writing it.”

Host: She leaned back, her eyes glowing with the quiet fire of conviction. The light caught the rim of her cup, and for a moment, the reflection looked like a small halo trembling above the table.

Jeeny: “Maybe the future isn’t a destination. Maybe it’s just the echo of our intentions. What we plant now grows there.”

Jack: “Unless it withers.”

Jeeny: “Then at least we tried to plant something.”

Host: A faint thunder rolled outside — not threatening, just a reminder of how fragile the world can sound when it’s honest.

Jack: (softly) “You ever think about how time works? How the future’s just the present waiting for its turn to disappoint us?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And yet you’re still sitting here, disappointing the present while waiting for a better future.”

Host: He laughed — low and reluctant, like a rusted gate finally opening.

Jack: “Touché.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the secret isn’t to wait for the future to assure our happiness — maybe it’s to stop outsourcing joy to a time that doesn’t exist yet.”

Jack: “That’s cute. But hard to do when the rent’s due and the world’s on fire.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly when it matters. Happiness isn’t a paycheck. It’s presence.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, delicate but solid — like a truth wrapped in silk. Jack’s gaze softened. Outside, a child splashed through a puddle, his laughter slicing through the city noise like a small miracle.

Jack: “So what are you saying — the future’s overrated?”

Jeeny: “No. The future’s just misunderstood. It’s not where happiness lives — it’s where it visits, if we’ve made room for it.”

Jack: “And the past?”

Jeeny: “The past teaches us what room to make.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the faint dripping of the awning. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, bathing the wet pavement in pools of gold.

Jack: “You know, Bierce probably laughed when he wrote that definition.”

Jeeny: “Probably. But maybe he laughed because he knew the truth — that happiness isn’t guaranteed in the future, and that’s exactly why we keep chasing it.”

Host: The song changed. Sinatra this time. ‘The best is yet to come,’ his voice crooned through the static. The irony wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “See? Even Sinatra believed.”

Jack: “He also drank enough whiskey to keep believing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe hope and whiskey come from the same bottle.”

Host: They both laughed — the kind of laugh that comes not from joy, but from recognition. From understanding how ridiculous and sacred it is to keep hoping.

Jack: (after a pause) “You really think the future’s worth the trouble?”

Jeeny: “Every version of it is. Because even if none of it turns out the way we want, the act of believing keeps us alive.”

Host: Outside, the clouds began to part, letting a sliver of light break through — pale, silver, uncertain, but undeniably real.

Jack: “Then here’s to the future.”

Jeeny: “No.” (She raised her cup.) “Here’s to us — the ones foolish enough to believe in it anyway.”

Host: Their cups clinked softly, the sound fragile but full of warmth.

Host: And for a moment — in that rain-kissed café, in that fragile intersection of cynicism and faith — Bierce’s irony melted into something else entirely:
not a mockery of hope,
but an acknowledgment of its necessity.

Host: Because though nobody truly owns the future,
it’s in the trying,
the believing,
and the waiting —
that we find the part of ourselves still brave enough to dream.