I don't have many famous friends, really, except Simon Cowell.

Host: The night had a gentle, amused sort of hum about it — the kind that vibrates in small jazz bars after hours, when the crowd’s gone home but the lights haven’t yet learned how to sleep. A few cigarettes still glowed in the ashtrays, like the last thoughts of a forgotten conversation. The city outside was buzzing — half alive, half dreaming.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in their usual corner, a bottle of cheap champagne between them, condensation sliding down the glass like time itself.

On the wall above their table, a television played an interview in silence — Leona Lewis on some late-night talk show. Her lips moved without sound, her smile soft but knowing. The subtitle flickered: “I don’t have many famous friends, really, except Simon Cowell.”

Jeeny laughed, not mockingly, but with that rich, empathetic warmth that made her laughter sound like light.

Jeeny: “That’s oddly honest, isn’t it?”

Jack: (raising a brow) “Depends on what you think she’s really saying. ‘Except Simon Cowell’ — like she’s naming the devil at her own dinner table.”

Jeeny: “Oh, come on. I think it’s sweet. She’s admitting she’s not part of the machine — not one of those people who collect fame like currency.”

Host: The bartender was wiping down glasses, humming softly to himself. A faint tune drifted from the piano in the corner — lazy, romantic, almost ironic.

Jack: “Sweet? Maybe. Or maybe it’s an unintentional confession. Fame is a club, Jeeny — and the entry fee’s authenticity. The moment you start caring about staying real, you’ve already lost your membership.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been kicked out.”

Jack: “I was never invited.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? Leona doesn’t sound bitter. She sounds... free. Like she never wanted to be part of that circus anyway.”

Host: The light from the neon sign outside flashed through the window — pink, then blue, then gold — painting their faces in alternating shades of irony and wonder.

Jack: “You think anyone in that world’s actually free? You don’t survive in entertainment unless you play the game. Fame’s a masquerade, Jeeny. You either learn to dance in the mask, or the music stops.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But some people hum their own tune. They stay simple, grounded. They remember the quiet before the applause.”

Jack: “You mean they remember who they were before the world started clapping?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why I like her line. It’s unpretentious. It’s not about who she knows — it’s about who she isn’t trying to know.”

Host: The champagne bubbled softly, the sound like laughter too shy to interrupt the moment. Jack poured another glass, his fingers steady, deliberate.

Jack: “So you think solitude’s a badge of integrity?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Especially when you could have company but choose peace instead.”

Jack: “You sound like someone romanticizing loneliness.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m defending it. There’s a difference.”

Host: The air in the bar shifted — the kind of subtle change that happens when talk moves from trivial to true.

Jeeny: “You know, people think fame gives connection — like recognition equals relationship. But it doesn’t. It gives noise. Attention isn’t intimacy.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tell me this — do you think someone like Leona Lewis is lonely?”

Jeeny: “Probably. But not because she’s alone. Because she feels too much. Empathy’s the loneliest gift.”

Jack: “You sound like you know something about that.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Don’t we all?”

Host: The record player in the corner crackled. The bartender switched it to an old Sinatra track, and the words floated through the air: “That’s life…”

Jack: “You know what’s funny? That one line — ‘I don’t have many famous friends’ — it says more about her than a thousand PR interviews ever could. She’s not selling an image. She’s admitting a truth — that fame’s a lonely country with bad neighbors.”

Jeeny: “Or that friendship still means something real to her. That not everyone with a name deserves a seat at her table.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Staying kind when you could become plastic — that’s rebellion.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to fall, fine and silver, blurring the city lights into soft watercolor.

Jack: “You ever notice how fame always wants to be worshiped, not befriended? It’s like a god that punishes normalcy.”

Jeeny: “And yet the real gods — the human ones — they’re the ones who stay humble. Who still remember to send birthday cards to their old school friends.”

Jack: “You think humility survives the spotlight?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it hides under it. Waiting for the lights to dim.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his expression half-curious, half-admiring — as if she were describing a world he wasn’t sure existed anymore.

Jack: “You know, you could’ve been famous.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want fame. I want resonance.”

Jack: “Big difference.”

Jeeny: “Huge. Fame shouts; resonance echoes.”

Host: The rain had grown heavier now, drumming gently on the window, its rhythm soft and forgiving. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “Leona Lewis wasn’t bragging. She was saying something subtle — that she values connection over collection. That having one honest friend, even if it’s Simon Cowell of all people, might mean more than a hundred famous ones.”

Jack: “That’s rare — in any world.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it sacred.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind of smile that comes with recognition — not of someone else’s truth, but of your own reflection in it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the secret to surviving all this — to keep one honest soul in your orbit, no matter how bright the noise gets.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fame fades. Integrity doesn’t.”

Host: The neon light from the sign outside flickered, then died, leaving the bar bathed only in the warm, fragile glow of the hanging bulb above them.

The storm outside deepened, but the world inside felt calm — like confession after chaos.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… some people spend their whole lives trying to impress the world. Others spend theirs trying to connect with it. Guess which ones sleep better.”

Jack: “The ones with fewer famous friends.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: They raised their glasses — not to fame, not to fortune, but to something quieter: the grace of authenticity.

Outside, the city kept raining, the streets shining with reflected light. Inside, laughter and truth lingered, mixing with the last fizz of the champagne.

And as the night folded into itself, it seemed that Wolfe, Cowell, fame, and fortune all faded away — leaving only this:

Two people, one conversation, and the holy simplicity of being real in a world obsessed with being known.