I can't really define it in sexual terms alone although our

Host: The night hung over the city like a heavy silk curtain, pierced by the amber glow of a single streetlamp outside the café’s window. Rain slid slowly down the glass, its rhythm soft, almost hypnotic. Inside, music from an old vinyl record whispered — a faint jazz tune, slightly cracked, like memory itself.
Jack sat by the window, smoke curling from his cigarette, eyes fixed on the blurred reflections of passing cars. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands clasped around a cup of tea, steam rising like a small ghost between them. There was a tension in the air, unspoken but alive — the kind that hides between desire and definition.

Jeeny: “Audre Lorde once said, ‘I can’t really define it in sexual terms alone although our sexuality is so energizing why not enjoy it too?’”
Her voice was quiet, yet filled with a spark — the kind that doesn’t fade, just burns more slowly.
Jeeny: “I think she meant that desire, intimacy, all that energy — it’s not just about the body, Jack. It’s about how alive we feel when we stop being afraid of it.”

Jack: smirking slightly, exhaling smoke “Or maybe it’s just about sex, Jeeny. People like to dress it up with philosophy, but underneath it — it’s biology, impulse, survival. No divine energy, no spiritual awakening. Just chemistry doing what it does.”

Host: The light from outside flickered briefly as a car passed. The smoke curled around Jack’s face, drawing shadows across his jawline — sharp, unforgiving, yet somehow tired.

Jeeny: “You really think that’s all it is? Then why do people write poems about it? Why do they risk everything for it — their reputation, their families, even their lives? Think of Anna Karenina, or even Frida Kahlo — her love wasn’t just physical, it was the fire that made her art breathe.”

Jack: “And it’s what destroyed her, too. That same fire you romanticize — it’s dangerous, Jeeny. It turns people into idiots. Look at Troy — a kingdom burned down over a woman. You call it energy, I call it madness.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup. The ceramic made a small sound, almost a tremor. Outside, a flash of lightning cracked the sky, and the rain began to fall harder.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? To feel something so deeply that it shakes you? Maybe the madness is what keeps us human. Sexuality — it’s not just about bodies. It’s about the force that pulls us out of numbness. It’s the pulse of life itself.”

Jack: “Life doesn’t need romance to be real, Jeeny. People find meaning in work, in creation, in logic. You don’t need to fall apart for it to count.”

Jeeny: “But when was the last time logic made you feel something? Really feel — like your blood was alive, your heart not just an organ, but an explosion?”

Host: Jack looked away. His eyes, usually cold, flickered — as if a memory had slipped through the armor. He stubbed out the cigarette, fingers pressing it into the ashtray with deliberate force.

Jack: “Feelings are unreliable. They come and go. One minute you think you’re in love, the next, you’re wondering who the hell this person in your bed is. You call it energy; I call it illusion.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, talking about it. You could have ignored the quote. You didn’t.”

Host: Silence settled like a veil. The clock above the counter ticked, slow and deliberate. The waitress wiped down an empty table, her movements distant, mechanical. In the background, the jazz turned to a low hum, a kind of lonely heartbeat.

Jack: “I’ve just seen what happens when people chase that kind of energy. My father — couldn’t stay faithful to my mother. Said he was searching for aliveness. All he found was guilt and emptiness. So forgive me if I don’t romanticize it.”

Jeeny: softly “And your mother? Did she ever feel alive, Jack?”

Host: He froze. The air shifted. The rain outside softened again, its sound more like a whisper now than a storm.

Jack: “She felt hurt. That’s what being alive looked like for her.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe she was too alive. Pain is a kind of truth, Jack. Lorde said it — our sexuality is energizing, but not the whole of us. It’s what connects the body to the spirit. If we deny it, we deny a part of what we could become.”

Jack: “Or we just save ourselves from chaos.”

Jeeny: “You talk about control as if it’s freedom. But control is just a prettier name for fear.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed — dark, steady, almost luminescent in the dim light. Jack’s jaw tightened. The room grew smaller, as if their words themselves pressed against the walls.

Jack: “You think I’m afraid of feeling?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re afraid of what feeling might make you lose. People who hide behind reason usually are.”

Jack: “Maybe because reason’s the only thing that doesn’t betray you.”

Jeeny: “Then why does it leave you so empty?”

Host: The rain stopped. The sound of the last drops echoed against the window, like a slow heartbeat fading away. Jack leaned back, his face caught in the half-light. Something in him broke — quietly, invisibly.

Jack: “You think love, sex, desire — whatever you call it — can save us?”

Jeeny: “Not save us. But remind us. Remind us that we’re still here, still burning, even when the world feels cold. It’s not about defining it. It’s about living it — like Lorde said — not in sexual terms alone, but in how it makes us create, resist, connect.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, but her eyes did not. There was conviction in her breath, the kind that carries the weight of something deeply human.

Jack: “You always turn things into poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because life deserves to be spoken that way.”

Jack: “And maybe because it’s easier than facing the mess.”

Jeeny: “Mess is where the truth lives, Jack. You can’t clean it up without killing it.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. Only the faint scent of coffee, the soft crackle of the vinyl, and the throb of something unspoken between them filled the space. Then Jack’s hand moved — almost unconsciously — and rested near hers. Not touching, just near enough to feel the heat.

Jack: “You know, sometimes… I envy how you can believe in that energy.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, I envy how you can survive without it.”

Host: They both smiled, faintly — fragile, real. Outside, the clouds began to break, letting through a thin silver light that painted the table between them.

Jeeny: “Maybe we’re both right. Maybe it’s not just sex or spirit. Maybe it’s what happens when both stop fighting and start dancing.”

Jack: “A dance, huh? Sounds dangerous.”

Jeeny: “The best ones always are.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the café small against the endless street, two silhouettes leaning toward each other as light returned. The rain had stopped, but the air still shimmered with its memory — the kind of moment that makes you wonder if being alive was ever meant to be anything less than this: fragile, fierce, and utterly undefinable.