Humor helps people open up.

Host: The night had a quiet chill, the kind that made the air feel almost alive. Rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the streets slick with silver reflections of streetlights. Inside a small café, candles flickered on wooden tables, their flames swaying like breathing souls. The sound of soft jazz spilled from an old radio, curling through the room like smoke.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes fixed on the reflection of the city, a half-smile resting on his lips, the kind that seemed borrowed rather than born. Jeeny sat across from him, hands wrapped around a mug, steam rising like thoughts not yet spoken.

The topic tonight had come from a note Jeeny had scribbled on a napkin earlier, a quote by Roger von Oech:
“Humor helps people open up.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s true, you know. Humor is like a key — it unlocks the walls people build around themselves. A smile, a laugh, and suddenly the heart feels a little braver.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and skepticism.

Jack: “Or maybe humor just hides the truth. People laugh because they’re afraid to cry. They joke so they don’t have to think. It’s not a key, Jeeny. It’s a disguise.”

Jeeny: “A disguise can still protect. Sometimes laughter is the only armor that keeps us from breaking. You’ve used it too, haven’t you?”

Host: A pause. Jack’s eyes narrowed, the candlelight catching the shadows beneath them. His hand tightened around his glass, then relaxed again.

Jack: “Sure. I’ve laughed in rooms that felt like funerals. But that doesn’t mean it helped. It just delayed the pain. Humor doesn’t open people up — it distracts them.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It softens them. Pain is a closed door — but laughter is the knock that says, ‘I’m human too.’ It doesn’t erase suffering, but it reminds us we’re not alone in it.”

Host: Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, sending a faint ripple of sound through the stillness. Inside, the light from the candle flickered across their faces, as if listening.

Jack: “So you’re saying humor is… what? A form of truth?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. A gentle one. It reveals without wounding. It allows people to speak their truths in disguise, until they’re ready to face them.”

Jack: “That sounds like deception dressed up as therapy.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe healing requires a little deception. Don’t you ever feel that honesty is easier to swallow when it smiles?”

Host: Jack smirked, but his eyes betrayed a glimmer of something older — memories, perhaps, of moments when laughter had saved him more than he’d admit.

Jack: “You talk as if humor were a holy thing. But most people use it to escape — to avoid the awkwardness, the truth, the pain. The world laughs at what it refuses to understand.”

Jeeny: “And yet that laughter still connects them, even if for a second. Isn’t that beautiful? That two souls can touch in the sound of a shared laugh?”

Host: The music from the radio changed — a slower, more melancholic tune. A saxophone wept softly, as though echoing the tension in the room.

Jack: “Maybe for you. I’ve seen humor used to mock, to belittle, to keep people out, not let them in. There’s a kind of laughter that cuts.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not true humor. It’s fear pretending to be strength. When Roger von Oech said humor helps people open up, he meant the kind that’s kind. The laughter that invites, not defends.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had a tremor now — not of anger, but of longing. She looked down, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup, watching the steam fade like vanishing thoughts.

Jack: “So you really believe a joke can heal the world?”

Jeeny: “Not the world — but maybe a person. Maybe one moment of shared laughter can bridge the space between loneliness and understanding.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, his lips twitching toward a smile that almost became one. But then, his brow furrowed again, as if remembering he wasn’t supposed to agree.

Jack: “You sound like a dreamer, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the world has too many realists and not enough dreamers. That’s why people forget how to laugh — truly laugh, from the soul.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, a gentle rhythm in the background. The air had grown warmer, not from the heater, but from the words that had been shared.

Jack looked away, watching the rain begin to fall again. The droplets ran down the glass, mirroring the lines on his face, the shadows of something softer breaking through.

Jack: “You know… there was a time when I used to make my little sister laugh every night before she slept. She had… this laugh, like bells. When she got sick, I kept trying to make her laugh, even when she could barely breathe. It didn’t save her. But I like to think… it made her forget for a moment.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes filled with a quiet light, the kind that comes not from sympathy, but recognition — the understanding that pain and love can coexist.

Jeeny: “Then you already know, Jack. That’s what I meant. Humor didn’t save her body. But it opened her heart, and yours. That’s what it does — it makes space for light, even when there’s darkness.”

Host: The candlelight trembled, as though moved by their words. The rain softened, whispering against the window like forgiveness.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe humor isn’t an escape. Maybe it’s a… bridge. A way to reach people without breaking them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s how we say the unsayable. A smile can carry what words can’t.”

Host: They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain, the music, the heartbeat of a moment that felt suspended between pain and peace.

Jack: “You win this one.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning, Jack. It’s about understanding.”

Host: Jack laughed then — not the sarcastic, deflecting kind, but a real, warm, unrestrained laugh. Jeeny joined, her voice rising like bells in the storm. And for that brief eternity, the world outside the window seemed to pause, listening.

Host: The rain had stopped again. A thin moonlight slipped through the clouds, painting the table in silver. Two empty cups, two smiles, and the echo of laughter that lingered like hope.

In that soft quiet, the truth of Roger von Oech’s words hung in the air, alive and gentle:
“Humor helps people open up.”

And tonight, it had.