I don't usually lose my temper, but if I get angry, it's true -

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets slick and silver under the yellow glow of the streetlights. The air smelled of wet asphalt and city sweat. In a small garage at the edge of the old district, the sound of a motorcycle engine echoed, then died into silence.

Jack wiped the grease from his hands, tossing the rag onto the table. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms streaked with oil and sweat. Jeeny stood in the doorway, the hood of her jacket dripping faintly, her eyes calm but searching.

Host: The garage light flickered — a single bulb swaying slightly from the rafters, like a heartbeat trying not to quit. There was tension in the room, not spoken yet, but heavy enough to bend the air.

Jeeny: “Eva Mendes once said, ‘I don’t usually lose my temper, but if I get angry, it’s true — I’m scary.’”
Her voice was soft, almost teasing, but the way she said it made it feel like a confession. “You remind me of that sometimes, Jack.”

Jack: “Scary?” He smirked, lighting a cigarette. “Come on. I’m not scary.”

Jeeny: “No, not when you’re calm. But when you’re angry — you don’t just raise your voice, you change. You go quiet first, and then... everything in the room starts shaking.”

Jack: “You’re exaggerating.”

Jeeny: “I’m not.”

Host: She walked further in, her boots clicking against the concrete, her reflection caught in the metal of the bike beside him. Jack avoided her eyes, pretending to focus on a loose bolt.

Jack: “Everyone gets angry. Doesn’t mean they turn into a monster.”

Jeeny: “No. But some people carry anger differently. When it finally comes out, it’s like opening a door that was never meant to open.”

Jack: “So I’m the door now?”

Jeeny: “You’re the storm behind it.”

Host: The light above flickered again, catching the faint glint of tears she didn’t quite let fall. Jack froze, sensing the tremor beneath her calm.

Jack: “Jeeny, you know I never meant to scare you.”

Jeeny: “I know.”

Jack: “Then why bring it up?”

Jeeny: “Because you think anger makes you powerful. But it doesn’t. It just makes people step back far enough that they stop reaching for you.”

Host: Her words hit harder than accusation. They sounded like something she’d been carrying for years — too gentle to throw, too painful to keep.

Jack: “You say that like I want people close.”

Jeeny: “I think you do. You just don’t trust what happens when they get there.”

Jack: “You think anger’s a choice?”

Jeeny: “No. But what you do with it is.”

Host: A faint hum of thunder murmured in the distance — the sky still restless. Jack leaned back against the workbench, exhaling smoke, his face shadowed by the low light.

Jack: “You talk like anger’s poison.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you drink it to prove a point.”

Jack: “Sometimes it’s medicine. Sometimes anger’s the only thing that keeps you from giving up. You think I made it this far by smiling through every betrayal?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can’t live on adrenaline forever, Jack. It burns everything around you — including yourself.”

Host: The rainwater still dripped from the edge of the roof, a slow rhythm that matched the silence between them.

Jeeny: “You remember that night at the bar? When that guy insulted the waitress and you broke a bottle over the counter?”

Jack: “He deserved it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that wasn’t justice — that was rage wearing armor.”

Jack: “You sound like my conscience again.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to be.”

Host: The bulb swayed once more. Its light drew strange, sharp lines across Jack’s face — half fury, half fatigue.

Jack: “You don’t understand what it’s like — holding it in. You bite your tongue for years, take the hits, let people walk over you, and one day… one day it just erupts. And suddenly everyone’s calling you scary, when all you did was finally stop pretending you’re fine.”

Jeeny: “I do understand. I’ve seen it. The world pushes until the quiet ones break.”

Jack: “Then why do you still flinch when I do?”

Jeeny: “Because you don’t see your own strength. You forget how heavy your words can hit. You call it honesty, but sometimes it’s demolition.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, and Jack’s eyes softened, guilt threading through his rough exterior. He looked away, the smoke from his cigarette rising between them like a fragile wall.

Jack: “You think I enjoy it? Losing control?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think part of you believes it’s the only way people listen.”

Jack: “Maybe it is.”

Jeeny: “That’s not power, Jack. That’s fear — the fear of being ignored unless you roar.”

Host: Her words lingered in the space, quiet but sharp. Jack dropped the cigarette into an oil can, the hiss of ember in liquid cutting through the stillness.

Jack: “You know, my father used to explode like that. Every time the bills piled up or the car broke down, he’d punch the wall, break something. I told myself I’d never be like him. Then one night… I caught myself doing the same damn thing.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it scares me. Not because you’d hurt someone, but because you’d hate yourself after.”

Host: He met her gaze then — two storms colliding without thunder.

Jack: “So what am I supposed to do? Just swallow it?”

Jeeny: “No. You learn to speak before you boil.”

Jack: “Easier said than done.”

Jeeny: “Everything worth doing is.”

Host: She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm lightly, leaving a faint streak of grease where her fingers touched.

Jeeny: “You’re not scary when you’re angry, Jack. You’re scary when you forget how much you care.”

Jack: “You always think anger hides love.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? We only rage about what matters.”

Host: Outside, the last of the storm clouds shifted, and a sliver of moonlight broke through, pouring into the garage in cold silver lines.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe anger’s just love that’s been cornered too long.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But even love, when caged, turns feral.”

Host: The light touched her face, revealing both gentleness and sorrow. She looked like someone standing on the edge of forgiveness — and choosing it.

Jack: “You know… when I lose it, I hate how people look at me after. Like they’ve seen something I can’t unshow.”

Jeeny: “Then stop proving how strong you are and start showing how human you are.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s necessary.”

Host: Jack exhaled, long and slow, the tension in his shoulders easing at last. The hum of the night returned — faint, steady, alive.

Jack: “You really think I can change that?”

Jeeny: “I think you already have. You’re talking instead of breaking something.”

Jack: “I guess that’s progress.”

Jeeny: “It’s peace.”

Host: They stood there for a long moment — the hum of the city beyond the door, the smell of rain and motor oil mixing in the still air. Jack finally smiled, small and tired, but real.

Jack: “If I get angry again, you’ll remind me of this, won’t you?”

Jeeny: “I’ll remind you that you’re not your anger, Jack. You’re the space after it.”

Host: He nodded, eyes lowered, and for a fleeting second, the entire room seemed to breathe again.

Host: Outside, the moon rose higher, reflecting in puddles like broken glass turned to silver. Inside, two people stood in the glow of that fragile calm — not saints, not monsters, just human beings learning how to keep their fire from burning the house they’d built together.

Host: And though the storm had passed, its echo lingered — not in rage, but in the quiet, unspoken promise that even the fiercest hearts can learn to be gentle.