I don't like anybody to be angry with me. I'd rather have

Host: The bar was dimly lit, soaked in blues and the smell of bourbon. A slow guitar riff floated from the old jukebox in the corner — a voice, gravelly and worn, singing about heartbreak with the kind of grace only pain could teach.

The neon light from a “LIVE MUSIC TONIGHT” sign flickered against the window, splashing the small room in shifting shades of blue and red.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. His grey eyes were half-hidden beneath the smoke that hung in the air. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands wrapped around a soda glass, the faintest glimmer of a smile caught between curiosity and worry.

Host: They’d come here after work — one of those nights when silence carried too much weight, and a little noise was the only cure.

Jeeny: “You look like you’re about to fight the whole bar, Jack.”

Jack: “No fight left in me tonight.”

Jeeny: “Then why the storm face?”

Jack: (sighs) “Because someone’s mad at me. And it’s the wrong person to be mad.”

Jeeny: “Who?”

Jack: “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I hate it. B. B. King once said, ‘I don’t like anybody to be angry with me. I’d rather have friends.’ And I get it now.”

Host: The song in the background shifted, the guitar crying softly as though agreeing. The bartender wiped the counter, listening without looking — as though everyone in the place already knew the kind of ache that hides behind pride.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather be liked than be right?”

Jack: “You say that like they’re the same fight.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t they?”

Jack: “No. Being right doesn’t keep you warm at night. It doesn’t call you back, it doesn’t forgive you. People remember kindness more than correctness.”

Host: He took a slow drink, the whiskey burning its way down like a truth too sharp to say out loud.

Jeeny: “You sound tired, not sorry.”

Jack: “Both. Maybe I just don’t have the energy for enemies anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not peace, Jack. Maybe that’s fear of conflict.”

Jack: “Same result, isn’t it? No yelling, no tension.”

Jeeny: “No honesty either.”

Host: Her voice cut through the dim air, not cruel, but surgical. Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers through the haze — that quiet battlefield where truth always waited.

Jack: “You think wanting peace makes me weak?”

Jeeny: “No. I think wanting peace at the expense of truth makes you lonely.”

Jack: “Funny, I thought truth was supposed to set us free.”

Jeeny: “It does. But it also costs you company. That’s why most people choose silence instead.”

Host: The music softened, sliding into a melancholic instrumental — a guitar humming the language of regret.

Jack: “I used to be like that. Always needed to win. Every argument, every damn detail. My father used to say, ‘Don’t go to bed with someone angry at you.’ I thought it was about morality. Turns out, it’s just about sleeping better.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe he knew anger keeps ghosts alive.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just didn’t like losing.”

Host: The two of them laughed quietly, but it wasn’t joy — more a soft exhale of shared exhaustion.

Jeeny: “B. B. King had it right though. That man carried heartbreak like a melody and still made it sound like friendship.”

Jack: “Yeah, but even he played the blues alone.”

Jeeny: “Not alone — surrounded by people who loved what he gave them, even when he was hurting. There’s a difference.”

Host: She leaned in slightly, the jukebox light painting her face in blue, her eyes like reflections of the song itself — warm, wounded, but still open.

Jeeny: “You want everyone to like you, Jack. That’s your curse. You mistake approval for peace.”

Jack: “And you think I shouldn’t care at all?”

Jeeny: “No. I think caring too much turns love into strategy.”

Jack: “So what then? I just let people hate me?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. If the reason’s true.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink, the glass clinking softly — like punctuation to their growing argument. Outside, a small drizzle had begun, the city lights shimmering against wet asphalt.

Jack: “You ever lose someone over truth?”

Jeeny: “Everyone does, eventually. Some people can’t handle seeing their reflection in what you say.”

Jack: “And you’re fine with that?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’d rather be honest and alone than false and surrounded.”

Jack: “You’d rather have enemies than friends?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather have real friends. Which means they’ll get angry sometimes. That’s how you know they care.”

Host: The words settled like dust after a long storm. Jack’s expression softened, something flickering behind his guarded exterior — that rare glimmer of vulnerability that came when his logic lost to her truth.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s just better.”

Jack: “You really think anger and love can live in the same room?”

Jeeny: “Of course. They share the same heart — just different rhythms. One beats to protect, the other to forgive.”

Host: Jack looked down at his drink, tracing the edge of the glass with one finger. The sound of the guitar stretched through the air, low and aching, like a man remembering everything he wished he’d said differently.

Jack: “You know, when people are mad at me, I stop sleeping. I replay it over and over — what I said, what I could’ve said. It’s like my head can’t stand the silence of being misunderstood.”

Jeeny: “That’s empathy, Jack. But empathy without boundaries becomes self-destruction.”

Jack: “So you’d just sleep fine knowing someone hates you?”

Jeeny: “No. But I’d sleep knowing I didn’t betray myself trying to make them love me.”

Host: Her voice was steady now, like the low hum of the bass in the background — calm but carrying the weight of something lived, not just learned.

Jack: “You ever think we’re all just scared kids trying to be liked?”

Jeeny: “Of course we are. The difference is some of us grow into that fear, and others grow through it.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “And which am I?”

Jeeny: “You’re still deciding.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed, leaving trails on the window like melted tears. The bar had emptied — only the jukebox still speaking in soft, soulful language.

Jack: “I used to think being liked was proof I was good.”

Jeeny: “It’s not proof. It’s comfort. But comfort’s not always the truth.”

Jack: “So what’s good then?”

Jeeny: “Being kind when you could be cowardly. Being honest when it costs you something.”

Host: Jack sat still for a long moment, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. Then, finally, he nodded — slow, quiet, accepting.

Jack: “You always make me feel like I’m almost right and completely wrong at the same time.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s because you are.”

Host: They both laughed — a small, tired sound that somehow felt alive. The bartender turned the jukebox down, and the last note of the song lingered in the smoky air, trembling before it disappeared.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to fear people’s anger, Jack. You just have to trust that friendship isn’t built on never upsetting each other — it’s built on surviving it.”

Jack: “And if they don’t forgive me?”

Jeeny: “Then they were never friends. Just spectators.”

Host: The final line of the blues tune whispered from the speaker: “You can’t have the blues without love.”

Jack looked up, a faint smile crossing his face as he finished his drink.

Jack: “Guess that means I’m halfway there.”

Jeeny: “You’ve always been halfway there — you just keep stopping for permission.”

Host: The camera would pull back then — through the haze, through the music, through the gentle fog of cigarette smoke and low light. The neon outside still flickered, casting two silhouettes at the bar: one man learning to make peace with imperfection, and one woman teaching him how.

And as the song faded, so did the tension —
leaving behind not silence, but understanding.

Because in the end, even the King of Blues was right —
it’s better to lose an argument
than to lose a friend.