I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those

Host: The bar was dimly lit, a low hum of music bleeding through the cracked speakers. Neon light from the street flickered across the bottles behind the counter, painting everything in hues of violet and amber. The rain outside had just stopped, leaving the windows streaked with glistening trails of water, like memories sliding down glass.

Jack sat hunched over a half-empty glass of whiskey, the ice long melted. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands cupped around a small espresso, steam rising like faint smoke between them.

They hadn’t spoken for a few minutes — only watched the slow movement of the night, the way time seemed to curl in on itself in moments of quiet resentment and reflection.

Jeeny: “Jean Cocteau once said, ‘I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike?’”

Jack: (smirking) “Now that’s a quote I can drink to.”

Host: Jack raised his glass slightly, the amber liquid catching the bar’s trembling light. His smile was tired, bitter in its shape. Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, tracing the lines of his face as if reading a familiar story.

Jeeny: “You sound like you mean that.”

Jack: “I do. Look around, Jeeny. The world’s full of people who trip into success while the rest of us crawl. You think it’s talent or virtue? No. It’s luck. Pure, stupid, undeserved luck.”

Host: The bartender wiped the counter nearby, pretending not to listen. The smell of spilled beer and wet concrete drifted through the air. Jack’s words sat there, heavy and cynical, as if meant to wound the silence itself.

Jeeny: “You always say that. But maybe it’s not luck, Jack. Maybe it’s timing. Or persistence. Or just... people daring to show up when others don’t.”

Jack: “Persistence? Timing? Don’t make it sound noble. You ever watch someone with half your brains and none of your work ethic just get it all? The promotion, the spotlight, the applause? And you’re left clapping in the dark. Tell me that’s not luck.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s something else you can’t admit — maybe they’re willing to risk more. To be seen failing.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. Don’t romanticize it. Some people are born standing on the stage while the rest of us are still trying to find the damn door.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, briefly illuminating the curve of Jeeny’s jaw, the faint defiance in her eyes. Her voice softened, but her tone sharpened with something like conviction.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes the world bearable — that it’s not fair? If everything was perfectly earned, there’d be no room for grace. No mystery. Maybe luck is just another name for the spaces we can’t control — the moments when life reminds us we’re not gods.”

Jack: “Grace? You think it’s graceful watching people cheat their way to comfort? Watching mediocrity wear a crown? I call that an insult, not a mystery.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking under the weight of his bitterness. The light shimmered off his grey eyes, catching the faint tremor of exhaustion that lived behind them.

Jeeny: “You know, once when I was a kid, my mother entered a lottery. She said she didn’t believe in luck, but she liked the idea of hope. She never won, but every week she’d buy a ticket. When I asked her why, she said, ‘Because one day, it might be my turn.’”

Jack: “And was it?”

Jeeny: “No. But it taught me something — luck doesn’t belong to the ones who get it. It belongs to the ones who keep believing it might come.”

Jack: (scoffing) “That’s sentimental nonsense. Belief doesn’t change the odds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it changes the soul. There’s a difference between waiting for luck and being open to it. You close yourself off with cynicism, Jack, and then complain that nothing good ever finds you.”

Host: Jack looked away, out the fogged window, where the city lights shimmered in distorted halos. His jaw clenched, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

Jack: “You think I haven’t tried? You think I didn’t work hard enough? I gave years to this — the late nights, the compromises, the people I had to bury quietly inside myself to keep moving. And then some grinning fool walks in, says the right thing to the right person, and it’s all theirs.”

Jeeny: “So you envy them?”

Jack: (after a pause) “I despise them.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve already lost. Because luck doesn’t just choose its favorites — it punishes those who stop believing in it. You can hate it, but you can’t control it. That’s its power.”

Host: Her words hung in the smoky air, sharp and shimmering. Jack’s expression darkened, then cracked into something closer to a laugh — dry, brittle.

Jack: “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But fortune cookies have survived entire civilizations of cynics.”

Host: That made Jack laugh — genuinely this time. The sound was rough, like stone breaking under pressure. The bartender glanced over, surprised by the sudden burst of sound from their corner.

Jeeny: “You know what I think luck really is? It’s the sum of unnoticed moments — the things you can’t measure. The conversation that led to an opportunity, the stranger you helped years ago who suddenly reappears when you need them. It’s not about fairness, Jack. It’s about flow.”

Jack: “Flow. Right. You mean coincidence dressed in poetry.”

Jeeny: “No. I mean movement. Life has a rhythm. If you move with it instead of against it, sometimes it opens doors. But if you stand still, counting who’s ahead and who’s behind, you’ll never see the one about to open right beside you.”

Host: Jack was quiet now, his fingers tapping lightly on the table, his mind clearly elsewhere. Somewhere in the silence, the truth of her words began to settle — slowly, reluctantly.

Jack: “So you’re saying I should just... make peace with luck?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you should stop measuring your worth against it. You can’t bargain with chance. But you can keep showing up — even when it laughs in your face. That’s what gives meaning to the game.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked softly. A couple at the far end began to dance to a song only they could hear. The night was loosening its grip.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we hate people we think don’t deserve their luck?”

Jeeny: “Because their luck reminds us of our fear — that maybe we were never in control to begin with.”

Host: The words hit Jack like a quiet echo — too gentle to bruise, but heavy enough to stay. He looked down at his drink, then pushed it away, as if done fighting the same ghost.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about liking or hating them. Maybe it’s about learning to breathe even when someone else gets the air.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Luck may favor them today, but grace — grace is quieter. It arrives when no one’s watching.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s face, small but sincere — the kind that suggested the start of surrender, not defeat.

Jack: “You think grace is stronger than luck?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because luck runs out. Grace doesn’t.”

Host: Outside, a stray breeze brushed past the window, stirring the faint scent of rain and earth. The neon sign across the street flickered one last time before steadying into a steady glow.

Jack lifted his glass, now empty, and set it down gently.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll buy a lottery ticket tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “Not to win, I hope.”

Jack: “No. To remind myself that I still believe it’s possible.”

Host: The camera would linger there — on the two of them, framed in the flickering neon, the sound of the city pulsing in the background. Their faces, both worn and alive, reflected against the wet glass — one carrying faith, the other learning it again.

And in that still moment, as the rain began again — gentle, forgiving —
the world seemed to whisper its quiet secret:

That maybe luck is just life’s laughter,
and those who keep believing in it
are the only ones truly alive to hear it.