I can only hope that the Democrats do tone down the rhetoric. The

Host: The bar was dim and quiet, a place where politics and whiskey met often but never politely. Outside, rain streaked the city windows, blurring the red and blue lights of passing cars into a single uncertain color. The television over the counter was tuned to a muted news channel — two pundits arguing wordlessly as captions scrolled like anxious poetry.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, his jacket damp, his tie loosened, fingers drumming lightly against an empty glass. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, shaking the rain from her coat, her dark hair glinting in the amber light. She ordered tea — always tea — and sat in silence for a moment, studying the news ticker as if it were scripture.

Jeeny: “Chris Collins once said, ‘I can only hope that the Democrats do tone down the rhetoric. The rhetoric has been outrageous: The finger-pointing, the tone, the angst, and the anger directed at Donald Trump, his supporters - really, then, some people react to things like that; people get angry as well, and you fuel the fires.’”

Host: Jack gave a short laugh, one without joy.

Jack: “Ah, the eternal American pastime — blaming the tone while ignoring the fire.”

Jeeny: “You sound tired.”

Jack: “I’m tired of everyone calling for civility after lighting the match themselves.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink nearby. The faint hum of rain against the windows filled the space between their words.

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s not wrong, though. Words have weight. You throw enough anger into the air, someone’s bound to choke on it.”

Jack: “Sure. But calling for calm after the damage is like telling a storm to stop mid-hurricane. Civility’s easy to preach when the chaos favors your side.”

Jeeny: “That’s true — but rage can’t build anything either. It just eats the house and calls it justice.”

Host: Jack turned toward her, grey eyes flickering under the neon glow.

Jack: “You think tone policing is the cure for a system rotting at the roots? When power lies, people don’t whisper their protest.”

Jeeny: “No, but they forget to listen while shouting. And when everyone’s yelling, even the truth sounds like noise.”

Host: The television above shifted to footage of a rally — faces flushed, flags waving, chants rising like thunder from two sides that no longer shared a common language.

Jack: “Politics isn’t conversation anymore. It’s theater. Rage sells. Nuance doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “Because nuance doesn’t trend. Anger gives people belonging — a tribe to bleed with.”

Jack: “So what? We all pick a tribe and shout across the canyon?”

Jeeny: “No. We build a bridge — but bridges require quiet hands, not clenched fists.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, its rhythm syncing with the pulse of the city — relentless, unresolved.

Jack: “Collins talks about toning down rhetoric like it’s just bad manners. But rhetoric isn’t the disease — it’s the symptom. The anger comes from betrayal, inequality, fear. You can’t fix that with softer words.”

Jeeny: “You can start there, though. Empires fall from cruelty, not conversation.”

Jack: “Conversation without honesty is performance.”

Jeeny: “And honesty without empathy is violence.”

Host: Jack paused, considering that, the sound of thunder filling the silence where argument should’ve been.

Jack: “Maybe what we call civility is just fear of discomfort. Nobody wants to look at how complicit they are — so they say, ‘calm down.’”

Jeeny: “And yet, when everyone’s inflamed, nobody heals.”

Jack: “Maybe healing comes after collapse. Maybe the country needs to break before it listens.”

Jeeny: “You talk like a cynic, but I think you’re just heartbroken.”

Host: Jack looked down, his reflection rippling in the amber liquid of his drink.

Jack: “You know what I miss? Debate that didn’t feel like war. Where disagreement wasn’t treason.”

Jeeny: “That died when truth became negotiable.”

Jack: “And forgiveness became weakness.”

Jeeny: “And empathy became political.”

Host: The bartender turned up the volume slightly — another panel shouting across the screen. Words collided, accusations flew, and beneath it all, the old ache of a divided country played like static.

Jeeny sighed, her voice quieter now, almost tender.

Jeeny: “Maybe Collins was right about one thing — we are all fueling something. Every tweet, every insult, every sneer. We’re throwing sparks without noticing the room’s full of gasoline.”

Jack: “And yet, telling people to stop shouting when their lives are on fire isn’t compassion. It’s control.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the balance, then? Silence?”

Jack: “No. Clarity. Anger that builds instead of burns.”

Host: She looked at him, eyes soft but steady.

Jeeny: “You think that’s possible anymore?”

Jack: “I think it has to be. Or we end up speaking only to our reflections.”

Host: Outside, the storm broke fully now — rain hammering the windows, wind howling through the narrow street. Inside, the world shrank to two people, two truths, one exhausted faith in dialogue.

Jeeny: “Maybe rhetoric isn’t the problem. Maybe we just forgot how to love the people we disagree with.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just forgot how to disagree without hate.”

Jeeny: “Same wound. Different phrasing.”

Host: The light from the television flickered across their faces — blue and white flashes like lightning, or like the pulse of a country trying to remember its own heartbeat.

Jack: “You think the world will ever calm down?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it’ll grow wiser about its noise.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, finishing his drink.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in the wreckage.”

Jeeny: “That’s where poetry belongs.”

Host: The camera widened, the rain blurring the city beyond the window, turning it into a watercolor of chaos and light.

The bar, small and golden, seemed to float within that storm — a quiet island of reason, of fatigue, of stubborn hope.

And as their silence stretched into something like understanding, Chris Collins’ words echoed softly, reshaped, redeemed:

“Tone cannot replace truth, but truth spoken without fury can still light the fire — not to destroy, but to illuminate.”

Host: The rain softened, and the neon reflections danced across the wet pavement — red and blue bleeding into one another, forming, for a brief, trembling moment, a color closer to purple.