I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best.

Host: The city was drowning in neon.
Rain fell in thin, relentless threads, stitching together the reflections of headlights, billboards, and the occasional umbrella like a broken mosaic. Inside a narrow bar tucked between two bookstores, the air was thick with smoke and the low hum of an old jazz record that seemed to have been playing forever.

Jack sat at the counter, his coat half-soaked, his glass untouched. The faint glow of a single hanging lamp carved sharp shadows across his face, outlining the tired elegance of a man who had long stopped pretending he believed in miracles.

Jeeny entered — no umbrella, no coat, just the quiet confidence of someone who belonged to rain as much as she did to light. Her eyes caught Jack’s instantly, and something like an unspoken memory flickered between them.

Host: The quote she carried in her mind — and scribbled in her notebook — was from Wilde:
"I have the simplest tastes. I am always satisfied with the best."

She said it often when life looked dull, when beauty felt far. Tonight, she said it again.

Jeeny: “Oscar Wilde. A man who could turn arrogance into poetry.”

Jack: (with a small, crooked smile) “Or turn self-indulgence into philosophy. Depends how much you like him.”

Host: Jeeny smiled — soft, knowing, amused.

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Maybe the world could use a little more indulgence — the kind that celebrates quality, not quantity.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just vanity dressed up in velvet. Wilde said he was satisfied with the best — but who defines ‘best’? The man with money? The one with taste? Or the one who’s learned to settle beautifully?”

Host: Jeeny took a seat beside him. The bartender nodded, slid her a glass without a word. She lifted it, the light trembling through the amber liquid.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about possession, Jack. Maybe ‘the best’ means living with discernment — knowing what truly moves you, and refusing to fill your life with mediocrity.”

Jack: “Sounds like a pretty way to say you hate compromise.”

Jeeny: “No — it means I believe in value. In authenticity. Wilde wasn’t praising luxury. He was mocking how people mistake simplicity for settling. You can be simple and still demand the extraordinary.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes reflecting the bar’s dim light, his voice low, edged with that familiar cynicism.

Jack: “You sound like every ad I’ve ever heard: ‘You deserve the best.’ That’s what sells — that’s the myth. Everyone thinks they’re chasing excellence, but most just want to feel superior.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’re confusing ego with standard. Having taste isn’t about proving you’re better — it’s about choosing what makes you alive. Wilde had the courage to demand beauty in a world that rewards convenience.”

Host: The record crackled softly. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass like a muted heartbeat.

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t feed people, Jeeny. It doesn’t fix what’s broken. I’ve seen people with impeccable taste live empty lives. Wilde himself — brilliant, yes — but destroyed by the same world he adored. His taste didn’t save him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it wasn’t supposed to. Maybe it just kept him human.”

Host: She said it with a calm fire, and Jack’s eyes flickered — just a small flinch, but enough to betray that the words had found their mark.

Jeeny: “You know, we all live surrounded by noise, plastic, and speed. People eat without tasting, work without meaning, love without depth. When Wilde said he wanted ‘the best,’ I think he meant he refused to live halfway.”

Jack: “And where did that get him? Prison. Exile. A lonely death in a cheap Paris hotel.”

Jeeny: “Yes — but with his soul intact. Tell me, Jack — what’s worse: dying misunderstood but authentic, or living comfortably while betraying who you are?”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, then back at her, his voice quieter, almost tender.

Jack: “You always make it sound noble — as if being true to yourself guarantees meaning. But what if your ‘best’ destroys you? What if your ideals cost you peace?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s a fair price. Peace without authenticity is just sedation.”

Host: A long pause. The bar filled with a low saxophone note — long, aching, like the sound of something remembering itself.

Jack: “You talk like a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “And you talk like a man who’s forgotten how.”

Host: That one landed. He turned his face slightly, as if the light were suddenly too harsh. A faint smile — or maybe a wince — tugged at his mouth.

Jack: “Maybe I did forget. You grow up, you compromise, you stop chasing ‘the best’ because you realize it’s not waiting for you — it’s priced out of reach.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The best isn’t a thing. It’s a way of seeing. It’s how you show up for the world, how you taste your coffee, how you notice the color of rain instead of complaining about it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. The religion of being awake.”

Host: Jack chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes softened — the kind of softness that comes after resisting too long.

Jack: “So, you think I can find ‘the best’ in this — ” (gestures around) “— in a cheap bar on a rainy night?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. The best isn’t in the price, it’s in the presence. Look around — the light, the music, this conversation. The fact that we’re still searching — that’s already it.”

Host: The rain began to ease, and the window fogged slightly, catching the faint outline of two figures — silhouettes leaning closer, bound not by agreement, but by understanding.

Jack: “You know, Wilde might’ve said that line to provoke. To make people question their own smallness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He was teaching us that refinement isn’t about owning the world — it’s about demanding that it mean something.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe I’ve been asking too little from life.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve been asking for the wrong things.”

Host: The music swelled. Jack reached for his glass, finally taking a slow sip, the bitterness giving way to quiet warmth.

Jack: “So… simplest tastes, huh?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Yes. The simplest — because once you know what the best feels like, nothing else satisfies.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped. The city lights shimmered in puddles like fragments of gold scattered across the pavement. Inside, the two of them sat in a quiet that felt almost sacred — the kind of silence born not from emptiness, but from a shared truth.

Jeeny turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — the best isn’t rare. It’s just overlooked.”

Host: He nodded, the faintest smile finding its way through the tiredness.

Jack: “Then maybe tonight… this is the best.”

Host: The camera lingered — the bar, the soft light, the record spinning to its final note. Two souls caught between irony and sincerity, cynicism and grace — and for one fleeting moment, even the rain outside seemed to agree.

And somewhere, beyond the city, the ghost of Wilde must have smiled — because once again, the simplest taste had found its way back to the best.