I don't really drink, but the one thing I really hanker after is

Host: The bar was tucked into the narrow alley behind the theatre, a place that smelled faintly of citrus, dust, and the slow-burning hum of jazz vinyl. Its walls were lined with vintage posters, curling at the edges — old faces and forgotten names half-hidden beneath the soft amber light. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, leaving silver streaks across the glass like handwriting from the night.

Jack sat at the counter, his tie loosened, a single ice cube melting slowly in the bottom of his glass. Jeeny sat beside him, swirling what she claimed was red wine, though her expression suggested it was more for the look than the taste.

Host: It was the kind of place where conversation flowed easier than the liquor — and truth, once it slipped out, never asked to be taken back.

Jeeny: “Sue Perkins once said, ‘I don’t really drink, but the one thing I really hanker after is Zubrowka vodka. If it’s someone’s birthday, I’ll pretend I like red wine for about three sips.’”

Jack: (grinning) “A woman after my own heart — honest enough to admit hypocrisy, but polite enough to make it charming.”

Host: His smile came easily, the kind that carried both irony and affection. He raised his glass as if to toast the quote itself, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Jeeny: “You’d love that line. It’s all contradiction — discipline wrapped around indulgence.”

Jack: “Isn’t that just being human? We all play at virtue until the right temptation smiles at us.”

Jeeny: “So honesty is just the art of confessing your favorite weaknesses?”

Jack: “Exactly. People think moral strength means saying no to everything. I think it’s admitting what you’d say yes to if no one were watching.”

Host: A slow laugh slipped from Jeeny, soft but genuine. The bartender, polishing glasses nearby, looked up for a moment — smiled faintly, as if the line had rippled the air.

Jeeny: “You always manage to romanticize vice.”

Jack: “Not vice — authenticity. Perkins wasn’t really talking about vodka, was she? She was talking about the small ways we allow ourselves to be imperfect.”

Jeeny: “And you think imperfection’s something to celebrate?”

Jack: “Of course. It’s the only honest thing left in most people. Everyone wants to look flawless, clean, filtered. But give me someone who knows their contradictions — that’s real beauty.”

Host: He leaned back, the light glancing off the rim of his glass. Behind him, the record changed, and the sound of Billie Holiday’s “I’ll Be Seeing You” floated through the room like memory given melody.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like flaws are virtues.”

Jack: “They can be. A person’s flaws are just their unedited truths.”

Jeeny: “So what’s yours?”

Jack: (smiling crookedly) “Cynicism. And the occasional Zubrowka.”

Host: Jeeny sipped her wine, winced — but didn’t stop. The rain outside began to quicken, like an orchestra warming up.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something refreshing about that. Perkins wasn’t trying to sound profound — she was just being honest. Maybe that’s why it feels profound anyway.”

Jack: “Exactly. Real honesty is always accidental. You can hear it in her tone — that shrug of humanity. We’re all pretending to like something, somewhere, to belong.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that sad?”

Jack: “No. It’s kind. Sometimes pretense is just empathy. You pretend to like the wine so the host doesn’t feel bad. You laugh at the joke that doesn’t land. Life runs smoother on little lies.”

Jeeny: “You mean life runs smoother when we soften the truth.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: The light flickered above them, catching the drifting smoke from a nearby table. The bar had grown quieter — the late-hour lull when laughter gave way to reflection.

Jeeny: “I think we’re taught to perform happiness. To sip from the glass, smile, say ‘cheers,’ even when it burns going down.”

Jack: “Exactly. But that’s not falsehood — it’s survival. A touch of civility in a messy world.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever get tired of pretending?”

Jack: “Sure. But then again, pretending is half of living. The trick is knowing when to drop the act.”

Host: He took a small sip of his drink — grimaced, then laughed quietly, shaking his head.

Jack: “See? Even I can’t stand this stuff. But it feels wrong not to toast something on a Friday night. It’s ritual, Jeeny — and rituals make us human.”

Jeeny: “You’re saying we fake joy to remind ourselves it’s still possible.”

Jack: “Exactly. Every sip, every smile — a rehearsal for when the real thing comes back.”

Host: The bartender switched the lights lower. The rain outside softened to a mist. A couple danced near the jukebox, moving slow, not for rhythm but for the comfort of closeness.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what she meant. Perkins wasn’t mocking pleasure — she was celebrating restraint. Knowing what you crave, but not letting it own you.”

Jack: “That’s the art of adulthood. You don’t give up the craving — you just get better at controlling the pour.”

Jeeny: “Or pretending the wine tastes better than it does.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, sincerely, like people who’d finally made peace with their own contradictions.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something beautiful in that balance — between honesty and civility. It’s like art: half truth, half illusion.”

Jack: “And a touch of vodka for courage.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked quietly. Midnight approached. The music changed again — slow piano now, soft and forgiving.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his eyes gentler than his tone.

Jack: “Maybe we don’t drink to forget. Maybe we drink to remember — that we’re still alive, still flawed, still funny, still trying.”

Jeeny: “And still pretending we like red wine.”

Host: Their laughter filled the space between them — the warm, familiar laughter of two souls who had learned that irony was just truth with its makeup on.

Outside, the rain stopped. The city lights shimmered across puddles, each reflection more beautiful for its distortion.

Jeeny raised her glass. “To pretending,” she said.

Jack clinked his against hers. “To imperfection,” he replied.

Host: And in that small act — that humble toast between cynic and dreamer — the night seemed to pause, as if listening to them breathe.

Host: Because sometimes the truest kind of honesty isn’t found in abstaining or indulging — but in the laughter that lives between the two, where a sip of wine or a taste of vodka becomes not a vice, but a quiet confession:

Host: that we are all faking grace a little, and that’s how we survive.