I don't diet, I don't do fads, I've just decided to not eat

Host:
The evening had that glossy calm of a film set before the first take — lamps glowing softly, rain whispering against the windows, and the faint clink of wine glasses echoing through a small Parisian café. The air smelled of coffee, chocolate, and nostalgia.

Outside, umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers under the streetlights, while inside, Jack and Jeeny sat at a corner table, surrounded by the quiet romance of half-empty cups, crumpled napkins, and candles burning down to memory.

Jack was in his usual black coat, a man who wore cynicism the way others wore perfume — with confidence and just enough melancholy to make it believable.
Jeeny, across from him, looked as though she belonged to another time — hair loose, eyes bright, a woman who spoke softly but with the kind of conviction that could stop a clock.

Jeeny:
(smiling, reading from her phone)
“Nancy Meyers once said, ‘I don't diet, I don't do fads, I've just decided to not eat carbs. So no more bread and pasta for the month. I can't live without chocolate, though. I've always got a bar in my handbag. It has to be 72%. Any less and it's too sweet, any more and it's inedible. Like I said, I'm very particular.’”

(She sets her phone down, eyes shining.)
“I love her for that. So unapologetically herself. It’s not about perfection — it’s about taste, about knowing what makes you feel like you.”

Jack:
(smirking) “So the secret to happiness is high-percentage cocoa and low expectations?”

Jeeny:
(laughs softly) “No, Jack. The secret is being particular without being punished for it. There’s something elegant about knowing your boundaries.”

Jack:
(leans forward, mock serious) “Boundaries? It sounds like refined self-deprivation to me. You cut out bread but carry chocolate like a weapon.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “Exactly. Because joy doesn’t come from excess — it comes from selection.”

Host:
A pause, filled with the soft murmur of other conversations, clinking spoons, and the flutter of rainlight on the windowpane.
Jack’s eyes flicked toward the pastry counter, where croissants glowed like golden sin.

Jack:
(gesturing) “You mean to tell me that sitting here, in the land of croissants, you’re thinking about restraint?”

Jeeny:
(smiles knowingly) “Restraint is not the absence of desire, Jack. It’s the art of holding it long enough to savor it.”

Jack:
(laughs quietly) “That’s a beautiful way of saying torture.”

Jeeny:
(with a playful smile) “No. It’s design. Nancy Meyers would understand — everything beautiful is about balance. Even a kitchen needs contrast — marble next to wood, white against brass. Why should a body or soul be any different?”

Host:
The rain deepened, its rhythm steady against the window, a quiet percussion that seemed to punctuate every word.
Jack stirred his espresso, the spoon clinking like a metronome, the tempo of disbelief.

Jack:
“You talk about balance like it’s easy. You think being particular is liberating, but it can also be a cage. The moment you start tailoring your joy, it becomes work.”

Jeeny:
(softly, almost whispering) “Only if you forget why you’re doing it. Being particular isn’t about control, Jack. It’s about curation. It’s knowing yourself well enough to choose what nourishes you and say no to what doesn’t.”

Jack:
(leans back, intrigued) “So you think self-control is self-love?”

Jeeny:
(smiling gently) “When it comes from awareness, yes. But when it comes from fear, it’s just another diet.”

Host:
For a moment, neither spoke. The café clock ticked, the light shimmered through the raindrops, and a faint melancholy jazz hummed from a speaker overhead. It felt like the kind of moment Nancy Meyers herself might have written — perfectly lit, softly tragic, quietly beautiful.

Jack:
(breaking the silence) “You know, I envy people like her. They turn preference into philosophy. Meanwhile, I can’t even decide how much sugar to put in my coffee.”

Jeeny:
(smiles) “Maybe that’s the point — you don’t have to decide everything. Some choices are meant to define us, and some are just meant to delight us.”

Jack:
(smirking) “So chocolate defines you, but pasta would destroy you?”

Jeeny:
(laughing) “Exactly. Life’s a film, Jack — and every good script needs tension.”

Jack:
“Then you’re the romantic lead, and I’m the cynical editor.”

Jeeny:
(teasingly) “No, you’re just the man who forgot that even cynicism needs dessert.”

Host:
Her words lingered, half a laugh, half a truth.
Jack looked down, his hand resting on the table, fingers brushing the edge of her plate — a gesture that said he wanted to disagree, but couldn’t quite find the will to.

The rain eased, softening into a drizzle. The world outside blurred — streetlamps bleeding light, faces merging, life looking softer than reality ever allows.

Jeeny:
(gazing out the window) “That’s the thing about humor, food, or love — we take them too seriously. But if we let them flow, they feed us in ways rules never could.”

Jack:
(quietly, a smile curling at the edge of his voice) “So the secret to happiness is a little indulgence — perfectly measured, of course.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “72%, to be exact.”

Host:
They both laughed — that gentle, knowing kind of laughter that only happens when two people stop defending their truths and start sharing them.
Jack reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small wrapped bar of dark chocolate, and slid it across the table.

Jack:
(mock-serious) “72%. I came prepared.”

Jeeny:
(surprised, delighted) “You actually carry chocolate?”

Jack:
(smirking) “No. But I started thinking maybe life’s easier when you do.”

Host:
The camera caught the moment: her laughter spilling, his eyes softening, the world outside still wrapped in silver rain.
It wasn’t about food, or chocolate, or even philosophy — it was about presence.
The delicate, ridiculous, wonderful art of knowing yourself well enough to live with taste.

Jeeny:
(holding the chocolate like a relic) “You know, Nancy Meyers was right — it’s not about denying yourself. It’s about defining yourself.”

Jack:
(smiling softly) “And maybe a little sweetness helps.”

Host:
The camera pulls back — two figures at a table by the rain, light flickering, steam rising, hearts steady.
Somewhere, the rain stops, and the city exhales.

And in that quiet, cinematic moment —
between indulgence and intention,
between choice and craving —
they both finally understood what it meant to be particular:

not to limit the world,
but to savor it —
one piece of perfect dark chocolate at a time.