I hate menus, I hate choosing food. I just want to be brought.

Host: The restaurant was nearly empty, its lights dimmed to that perfect shade of warm exhaustion — where time slows, and even the clinking of cutlery sounds like a confession. Through the fogged windows, the city rain fell in steady curtains, the streetlights outside fracturing into amber veins across the glass.

In a corner booth, Jack sat with a menu in his hands, staring at it like it was a legal document written by God — one that he was expected to interpret correctly, or face eternal culinary judgment. His grey eyes were narrowed, his brow furrowed, his finger tapping the laminated surface with irritated rhythm.

Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her long black hair falling forward in soft curves, her eyes glinting with amusement. She already knew what she wanted — or rather, she didn’t need to know. She trusted the meal, the night, the moment. Jack, on the other hand, was at war with the menu.

Jeeny: (grinning) “You’ve been staring at that thing for fifteen minutes. It’s a dinner menu, not an existential crisis.”

Jack: (sighs heavily) “I hate menus, Jeeny. I hate choosing food. I just want to be brought. Bring me dinner. That’s it.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “That’s a very Hugh Laurie thing to say.”

Jack: (deadpan) “Then he’s the only man who’s ever understood me.”

Host: A waiter drifted past, carrying a tray of wine glasses, their edges catching the light like small galaxies. The aroma of garlic, lemon, and grilled fish moved through the air — the kind of scent that makes life feel temporarily forgivable.

Jeeny: “It’s not that bad, Jack. Choosing is part of the pleasure. It’s like... participating in your own destiny.”

Jack: (snorts) “Destiny? It’s dinner, not the Odyssey. Just feed me before I lose the will to live.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who doesn’t want control, just comfort.”

Jack: (leans back, half-smiling) “Exactly. Every day we have to choose something — what to say, who to be, how to pretend we’re fine. Why can’t there be one moment where the world just says, ‘Sit down, Jack. Here’s dinner. You’ve done enough.’”

Host: Jeeny’s smile softened, her laughter fading into that kind of silence where understanding starts to form. The rain outside tapped a rhythm against the window, steady as a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “So you’re not really talking about menus, are you?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Maybe not. Maybe I’m talking about being tired of deciding all the time. We act like choice is freedom — but sometimes, it’s just pressure in disguise.”

Jeeny: “But choice is what makes us human. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.”

Jack: (grins faintly) “You’d defend the menu, wouldn’t you?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The menu is a metaphor, Jack. It’s a list of possibilities. It’s life handing you a page and saying, ‘Go on. Pick your story.’”

Jack: (leans forward, voice lower) “And what if I don’t want to pick? What if I just want to be brought something good — something that trusts me back?”

Host: Her eyes flickered, caught between the poetic and the practical, between understanding and defense. Outside, a taxi horn echoed, sharp and brief, like a reminder that the world was still moving.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what you really want — to trust someone else’s taste. To be taken care of for once.”

Jack: (softly) “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “That’s not lazy, Jack. That’s human. We all want someone to say, ‘I know what you like, I’ve got you.’”

Jack: (smiles) “You make dependency sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It can be. When it’s earned, when it’s kind. Trust isn’t weakness; it’s the luxury of the tired.”

Host: The waiter returned, standing quietly beside them, notepad ready. Jeeny smiled and closed her menu without a glance.

Jeeny: “We’ll have two of the chef’s specials.”

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) “You don’t even know what it is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” (turns to the waiter, smiling) “Surprise us.”

Host: The waiter nodded, scribbled, and disappeared, leaving a trail of certainty in his wake. Jack looked at Jeeny like a man watching magic happen, even if he’d never admit it.

Jack: “You really don’t need to know what you’re getting?”

Jeeny: (leans back, content) “Not tonight. I’m choosing to not choose. There’s a kind of peace in that.”

Jack: (smiling slowly) “You’re quoting me now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just understanding you. There’s a difference.”

Host: For a moment, the restaurant fell into that rare harmony — where the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of music, and the quiet laughter of strangers all seemed to agree on something ancient: that peace often comes in the simplest moments — when expectation gives way to trust.

Jeeny: (softly, after a long pause) “You know, I think Hugh Laurie wasn’t really talking about food either.”

Jack: (smirks) “Oh, of course not. It’s about existential hunger, right? The cosmic need to be… catered to.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Exactly. To be seen, known, and served something that fits you — without having to explain yourself.”

Jack: (looks at her, quiet now) “That sounds a lot like love.”

Jeeny: (nods, smiling faintly) “Maybe it is. Maybe the truest kind of love says, ‘You don’t have to decide tonight. I already know what you need.’”

Host: The food arrived, steam rising, aroma blooming like a promise kept. Neither of them asked what it was — they just ate, slowly, quietly, their faces softening in the shared warmth of something simple, uncomplicated, true.

Outside, the rain eased, silver rivulets tracing down the window like thoughts finding their way home.

Jack: (after a while, quietly, almost to himself) “You know, maybe that’s the real definition of being cared for — not being given everything, but being brought exactly what you didn’t know you needed.”

Jeeny: (smiles, eyes gentle) “Exactly. You finally get it.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the restaurant glowing like a lantern in the dark city, the two figures framed in warm light, their dishes half-eaten, their hearts full.

Because sometimes the deepest comfort in the world isn’t choice — it’s trust.
Not the power to decide, but the grace to surrender.

And as the lights softened, and laughter drifted, Jack finally smiled — not at the menu, not at the meal, but at the strange, sweet relief of being brought something good, without having to ask.