I honestly don't need much money. People love to buy me drinks.

Host: The gallery was almost empty — the hour between elegance and exhaustion. The last of the guests had drifted away, leaving only the sound of slow jazz, the faint clink of glasses, and the smell of champagne mingling with fresh paint. Spotlights washed the walls in soft, white radiance, catching glimmers of color from the canvases that still seemed to breathe.

Host: Jack stood near one of the larger paintings — something wild and abstract, all red and gold, like a secret argument frozen in motion. He held his glass loosely, his tie undone, looking slightly out of place, the way cynics often do at parties built on charm.

Host: Jeeny, barefoot now — her heels dangling from one hand — approached with a slow smile. She’d been talking with the curator, but her eyes had never quite left Jack.

Jeeny: “Rene Ricard once said, ‘I honestly don’t need much money. People love to buy me drinks. Hostesses love to feed me. Famous artists lavish me with expensive artworks, and heiresses do the same with jewels that I promptly lose.’”

Jack: (chuckling) “So he was the kind of man who floated through life on wit and mischief.”

Jeeny: “Or honesty. Maybe he just refused to take capitalism too seriously.”

Jack: “That’s a romantic way of describing professional irresponsibility.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me you don’t envy that kind of freedom — to live by charm instead of by paycheck.”

Jack: “Freedom’s just another word for someone else paying the bill.”

Host: The lights flickered faintly as the staff began cleaning up, sweeping crumbs and gathering forgotten glasses. A few people lingered in corners, still pretending they belonged to the art world, their laughter too polished to be spontaneous.

Jeeny: “I think Ricard was saying something more poetic. That life gives to those who dare to live like it owes them beauty.”

Jack: “And what about those of us who dare to live like we owe it rent?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re too afraid of being generous.”

Jack: “Generosity’s for the unburdened.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s for the alive.”

Host: She set her shoes down, twirling one of them absently by the strap. The sound of her bare feet against the marble floor was quiet, but it carried — a rhythm of rebellion in a room full of restraint.

Jack: “You think Ricard actually believed what he said? Or was it just performance — the myth of the starving artist with rich friends?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it was both. Art and myth always share a bed.”

Jack: “And he slept on their pillows.”

Jeeny: “He dreamed on them. That’s different.”

Host: Jack’s eyes followed the light as it slipped across the painting. The gold brushstrokes looked almost alive now, pulsing faintly, like embers refusing to die.

Jack: “You know, there’s something both enviable and tragic about people like him — the ones who live as if luck will never run out.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just changes currency.”

Jack: “Meaning?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world stops feeding you champagne and starts feeding you stories.”

Host: He smiled at that — one of those slow, reluctant smiles that reveals more vulnerability than laughter ever could.

Jack: “You ever wish you could live like that? Floating through life on attention and affection?”

Jeeny: “I think I already do, in small ways. People give me moments. I just try not to waste them.”

Jack: “And me?”

Jeeny: “You hoard them. You store up life like you can deposit it in a bank.”

Jack: (grinning) “At least my investments don’t vanish when I misplace my jewelry.”

Jeeny: “No, but your memories do.”

Host: The jazz ended. A record scratch of silence filled the room before another tune began — slower, softer, like an afterthought.

Jack: “You know, I read once that Ricard lived off charm, but died nearly broke. Isn’t that ironic? The world fed him, but he left hungry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe he was full of what he valued most — attention, experience, intimacy. You can’t measure that in dollars.”

Jack: “You can’t pay rent with poetry, either.”

Jeeny: “You can live with it, though. And that’s rarer.”

Host: She picked up one of the empty glasses left behind, turning it slowly, watching the way light fractured through the leftover droplets.

Jeeny: “You know what I think Ricard really meant? That the world owes each of us some form of beauty — we just forget to ask for it without shame.”

Jack: “And when we do ask, we call it arrogance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But arrogance is just confidence without apology.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m defending the part of all of us that still wants to be adored for existing.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the faint smile fading into something more serious.

Jack: “You ever think you and I are just two different kinds of beggars? Me begging for stability, you for wonder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But both are a kind of hunger, aren’t they?”

Jack: “Yeah. Just one eats gold, and the other eats dreams.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as the staff turned them off one by one. Only the main gallery lamp remained, casting long shadows that seemed to move between them.

Jeeny: “You know, Ricard’s kind of life — it terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

Jack: “No. It tempts me.”

Jeeny: “Then what stops you?”

Jack: “Fear that no one will keep feeding me.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you never really trusted the world to love you.”

Jack: “Should I?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the world. But someone.”

Host: A quiet fell — heavier than silence, lighter than confession. Jack glanced at her, her face lit only by the spill of gold from the nearby painting.

Jack: “And if I do?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll stop hoarding your life and start living it.”

Host: She put her shoes back on, not out of necessity, but ritual — the way dancers mark the end of a performance.

Jeeny: “You know, Ricard may have lost his jewels, but he never lost his wonder. That’s what made him rich, even when he wasn’t.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe that’s the only wealth that doesn’t depreciate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The gallery lights finally went out. They stepped outside, into the wet air, the street shimmering beneath the lamplight. The city was quiet, drunk on its own beauty.

Host: And as they walked, Rene Ricard’s words seemed to follow — not as arrogance, but as a hymn for those who live without apology:
that maybe the richest life is not one of accumulation, but of exchange — of laughter for art, generosity for love, and hunger for the fleeting sweetness of being seen.

Host: The night stretched wide around them, and for once, Jack didn’t think of what he lacked. He simply walked — beside her, within the moment, fed not by fortune, but by presence.