I did not become a vegetarian for my health, I did it for the

Host: The moonlight spilled across the rooftop café, washing the tables in a silver quiet. The city below hummed like a distant heart, its lights blinking through the mist. A soft breeze carried the scent of rain and roasted meat**—**the irony not lost on the two who sat beneath the dim lamp at the corner table.

Jack stirred his black coffee, his eyes narrow, focused on the glowing city. Jeeny watched him, her chin resting gently on her hand, a half-smile lingering—a smile that knew this conversation would soon turn into war. Between them sat a plate of untouched chicken wings, their steam rising like ghosts of guilt.

Jack: “You know what Isaac Bashevis Singer said once? ‘I did not become a vegetarian for my health. I did it for the health of the chickens.’”
He leaned back, his voice carrying that usual edge of skepticism. “A clever line. But it’s also sentimental. He talks about the health of chickens as if they were moral subjects. As if the world runs on pity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should.”
Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the night. “He wasn’t talking about pity, Jack. He was talking about compassion—the kind that doesn’t calculate profit or gain. The kind that reminds us what it means to be human.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, catching the edges of Jack’s jaw, casting shadows like fault lines. He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool air.

Jack: “Human? Jeeny, we are predators by design. Look at our teeth, our history. Every civilization was built on something—or someone—being consumed. Singer romanticized a chicken. But nature doesn’t give mercy. Lions don’t pray for antelopes before they eat.”

Jeeny: “But we’re not lions, Jack. We have a choice. And that’s the difference between instinct and ethics. Just because we can kill doesn’t mean we should. That’s what Singer meant—the moral evolution that should come with consciousness.”

Host: A car horn echoed from below, breaking the silence for a moment. A cat slipped along the edge of the roof, pausing to stare, its eyes gleaming with a strange, primal awareness—as if it, too, were part of this quiet trial of souls.

Jack: “Ethics is a luxury, Jeeny. It’s easy to speak of compassion when your fridge is full. Tell that to a mother in a drought who has to feed her child. She doesn’t have the moral bandwidth to think about the chicken’s soul.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the more we excuse cruelty under the name of survival, the less human we become. Singer wasn’t naive—he escaped war, saw death, saw what humans do when they stop seeing life as sacred. Maybe that’s why he drew the line where he could.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed with quiet fire, while Jack’s remained cool, reflecting the city glow like twin shards of steel. The steam from the chicken wings faded, curling into the air like a vanishing argument.

Jack: “Sacred life? You’re giving meaning to meat. It’s fuel, Jeeny. Always has been. The chicken doesn’t write poetry. It doesn’t understand sacrifice or suffering in the way we do. You’re turning nature into a religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about what the chicken understands, but what we understand. The moment we stop caring about the pain of another being, we stop being poets, Jack—we just become engineers of appetite.”

Host: The rain began, slow, deliberate, whispering against the metal tables. Jack didn’t move. Jeeny lifted her cup, watching the ripples form in her tea like small echoes of thought.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? Singer’s vegetarianism was just another form of guilt. Humans always need something to atone for—if not sin, then consumption. You can’t eat without taking life, whether it’s a cow or a carrot. It’s all the same energy cycle.”

Jeeny: “That’s a clever evasion. You reduce everything until morality dissolves into chemistry. But there is a difference between taking a life because you must, and taking one because you don’t care.”

Jack: “And who decides which is which? You? Singer? The moralists who buy leather shoes and post about compassion online?”

Jeeny: “No. The decision isn’t about perfection. It’s about direction. Even if you fail, at least you’re trying to lessen the harm. That’s the root of Singer’s point—he wasn’t claiming purity, he was claiming responsibility.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, pooling on the table, reflecting the lamp’s trembling glow. A distant thunder rolled, low, melancholic—the sky itself ruminating. Jack’s hands tightened around his cup, knuckles pale.

Jack: “So you’d have us all live on leaves and virtue?”

Jeeny: “If that’s what it takes to stop killing out of convenience, yes. You think it’s extreme to change your diet, but isn’t it more extreme that billions of sentient creatures die each year for pleasure? Not need. Pleasure.”

Jack: “You think your plate of lentils will end suffering? That’s not morality, Jeeny—that’s theater. You can’t fix the cruelty of the world by refusing to participate in it. The machine runs with or without you.”

Jeeny: “And yet every act of refusal is a seed. Every time someone says ‘no,’ the machine hesitates. Maybe not enough to stop—but enough to remember there’s still a soul inside it.”

Host: The wind shifted, blowing the rain sideways, streaking across the lamp’s halo. Jack’s eyes lifted toward the sky, searching for something in the darkness—maybe a star, maybe a reason.

Jack: “You know, you sound like those prophets who believe in moral revolutions. But history doesn’t change through purity—it changes through power.”

Jeeny: “No. Power follows purity. Gandhi didn’t pick up a sword; he picked up truth. Singer didn’t write for applause; he wrote for conscience. Maybe you can’t see the result yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not working.”

Host: The thunder rumbled closer now, echoing like the heartbeat of the storm. Jack stood, pacing, his shadow sliding across the wet floor. Jeeny watched him—her expression a blend of sadness and grace, as though she were seeing not an opponent, but a wounded creature caught between intellect and instinct.

Jack: “You always talk like the world is redeemable. Like every cruelty is just waiting for enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Isn’t that what being human means? To keep believing the world can be kinder, even when it isn’t?”

Host: A moment of silence. Only the rain spoke, whispering on the rooftop like a slow confession. Jack looked at the chicken wings, now cold, pale, uneaten. He sighed, sitting down again, his voice softer, almost regretful.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my father had a farm. I saw him kill a chicken once. It flailed—screamed. I remember the sound. I didn’t eat meat for a week. But he told me, ‘Don’t think about it, son. That’s life.’ I guess I’ve been trying not to think about it ever since.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Singer wanted—to make us think again. To look at what we’ve learned to look away from.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the rain softening into a mist, drifting like forgiveness. Jack looked down, his fingers tracing the edge of the table, lost in thought.

Jack: “So you really think refusing to eat a chicken changes the world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But it changes the way I see it. And maybe that’s enough for a beginning.”

Host: The lamp buzzed once more, then fell silent, leaving them in moonlight. The city’s hum returned, steady, patient. Jack reached for the cup, poured out his coffee, and pushed the plate aside.

Jeeny smiled, not triumphant—only tender, hopeful.

They sat there in quiet, two souls staring into the night, the air heavy with questions and the faint, fragile promise of change.

Below them, the city breathed—unaware, unchanged, yet somehow, perhaps, a little less indifferent.