I believe that Attorney Fortuno has some styles that it seems to

Host: The evening was dense with rain, the kind that softens the edges of the city until everything becomes a blur of lights and silhouettes. Inside a narrow bar on the old harbor road, the air smelled of coffee, tobacco, and old vinyl records spinning somewhere behind the counter. A slow jazz melody leaked through the hum of conversation — the sound of a world still trying to talk to itself.

At a corner table, two figures sat — one with his hands folded, eyes cold and focused; the other with her gaze turned toward the window, where raindrops traced soft, uncertain paths down the glass.

Jack, the skeptic, wore his cynicism like armor.
Jeeny, the idealist, let her hope bleed into every word she spoke.

The quote hung between them like smoke:
“I believe that Attorney Fortuno has some styles that it seems to me are going to foster dialogue and good communication, and I hope I am not mistaken.” — Anibal Acevedo Vila

Jeeny: (softly, with a half-smile) “There’s something gentle about that line, isn’t there? The way it hopes even as it doubts. It’s not faith without eyes — it’s faith despite what the eyes see.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Or maybe it’s just politics. You ever notice how politicians say hope when they really mean I don’t trust this guy, but I’ll pretend to?”

Host: Jack’s voice cut through the music — low, deliberate, like a blade sliding across a table. The bartender paused, glanced over, then returned to wiping a glass. The world kept spinning, but slower now — as if it too were listening.

Jeeny: “You think every word of belief is a lie?”

Jack: “Not a lie. Just… performance. Dialogue, communication — all those words sound noble until you realize most people use them as weapons. You can ‘foster dialogue’ while sharpening your knife under the table.”

Jeeny: (tilts her head, thoughtful) “And yet, isn’t dialogue still the only bridge left when the world’s on fire? Even if the person across from you is holding a knife, at least you’re still facing each other. You can’t rebuild anything if everyone’s turned away.”

Jack: “You’re giving too much credit to conversation. Words don’t fix people. Action does. A man can promise peace all night, but if he signs a war decree in the morning, what good were the words?”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly in the distance, slicing through the night. The rain had turned to a slow drizzle, like the world was catching its breath. Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped, her eyes steady — soft, but unyielding.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, look at history. When Nelson Mandela came out of prison, he didn’t call for vengeance. He called for conversation — for reconciliation. He believed in dialogue even after decades of silence. And somehow, that belief changed a nation.”

Jack: (scoffs) “And how long did that peace last? Corruption, inequality, violence — it all crept back in. Dialogue may win the crowd, but it doesn’t keep the wolves away.”

Jeeny: “But it kept them from tearing each other apart — at least for a while. Isn’t that worth something? Every peace begins as a temporary truce. That doesn’t make it meaningless.”

Host: The light from the hanging bulb swung gently above them, casting shifting shadows over their faces. Jack’s eyes, usually cold, flickered with something unreadable — fatigue, maybe; or memory.

The bar’s door opened for a moment, letting in a gust of rain and the faint smell of the sea. It was as if the world itself wanted to enter the conversation.

Jack: “I just don’t buy this naive faith in ‘good communication.’ People talk about it like it’s some miracle cure. But you can talk honestly to someone and still end up on opposite sides of the gun.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the goal isn’t to avoid the gun. Maybe it’s to understand why it’s there in the first place.”

(She pauses, her voice lowering, more intimate now.)
“You see, Jack — when Vila said he hoped he wasn’t mistaken, he admitted something rare for a politician: vulnerability. The courage to doubt even his own faith in dialogue. That’s where honesty begins — not in certainty, but in the willingness to risk being wrong.”

Jack: (leans back, eyes narrowing) “So you think doubt is noble now?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s human. And it’s the only space where two people can meet without trying to conquer each other.”

Host: The music shifted — a slow trumpet crying quietly in the dark. Jeeny’s voice was a flame in the storm; Jack’s, a storm trying not to drown the flame. The space between them pulsed with both resistance and recognition.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s play this out. Suppose you’ve got two sides — doesn’t matter if it’s politics, marriage, war. One side wants power, the other wants peace. You sit them at the same table. You call it dialogue. You think words change hunger for control?”

Jeeny: “Not immediately. But maybe — slowly. Like water on stone. Words don’t erase greed, but they expose it. They make it visible. Once people see the game, they stop playing blind.”

Jack: “That’s optimistic.”

Jeeny: “It’s realistic — if you believe people can change.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s the part I struggle with.”

Host: His voice softened, the edge receding. He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused, as though they carried the weight of too many unspoken wars. Jeeny watched him with a kind of quiet tenderness — the way one watches a flame struggle in the wind but still believes it will live.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, when people stop believing dialogue is possible, that’s when violence wins. Words may not heal everything, but silence never heals anything.”

Jack: “And what if silence is safer?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not peace — it’s paralysis.”

Host: The rain outside had stopped completely. The streets glistened under lamplight, and in the reflection, it looked as though the city itself was trying to start over — to speak again after years of holding its breath.

Jack looked out the window, the faint glow of neon painting his face in restless colors.

Jack: “You know what I think Vila meant, deep down? He was hedging his bets. Hoping for dialogue, but bracing for betrayal. That’s how smart men survive.”

Jeeny: “And yet he still said it. ‘I hope I am not mistaken.’ That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s grace. To believe — even while bracing for the worst — that’s the most human thing there is.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t last long in politics.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “No. But it’s the only thing that outlives it.”

Host: The music faded into a low hum. The clock on the wall ticked softly — a rhythm older than hope, older than doubt.

Jack’s eyes met Jeeny’s, and something unspoken passed between them — not agreement, but acknowledgment. Like two languages finally realizing they share the same root.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe… maybe the point isn’t to win the dialogue. Maybe it’s just to keep it alive.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Exactly. To keep it alive — even when the words hurt, even when you don’t believe them. Because the moment we stop talking, we stop existing as more than enemies.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed. Outside, the moon broke through the clouds, silvering the wet streets. The world was quiet again, but not the same.

Two people, divided by doubt but bound by hope, sat in a small bar by the sea, keeping the flame of dialogue alive — fragile, trembling, but still burning.

Jeeny: (whispers, almost to herself) “I hope we are not mistaken either.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the city shimmering below like a field of restless stars. Somewhere between their words and the silence, something sacred had begun — not victory, not certainty, but the simplest act of all:

listening.