I love a woman with a relaxed attitude.

Host: The city was alive with midnight light — all silver windows, glinting cars, and restless voices that blurred into the rhythm of the hour. Somewhere above the heartbeat of traffic, a quiet rooftop bar overlooked it all. The air was warm, touched by the scent of rain and rose smoke from nearby candles. Jack sat by the edge of the balcony, a glass of whiskey catching the shimmer of the skyline. Jeeny, in a soft linen dress, leaned on the railing beside him, the faint wind tugging gently at her hair.

Below, the city pulsed with ambition. Up here, it breathed with memory.

Jack: (with a faint smile) “Stephane Rolland once said, ‘I love a woman with a relaxed attitude.’ I’ve been thinking about that.”

Jeeny: (glancing at him, amused) “You? Thinking about relaxation? That’s a first.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was low, brief — the kind that hides more than it reveals. His grey eyes caught the reflection of distant lights, but they were looking somewhere else entirely — inward, perhaps.

Jack: “No, really. He was talking about confidence, wasn’t he? The kind of woman who doesn’t overcompensate, doesn’t perform. I get that. I’m tired of all the pretending — from everyone, including myself.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Relaxed isn’t pretending. It’s trust. It’s knowing the world might break you, and deciding not to flinch.”

Host: The wind moved through them like a soft sigh. Far below, a siren wailed — brief, then gone. The skyline flickered with a thousand quiet stories, each one burning toward something, or away from it.

Jack: “You really think that’s what he meant? Because most men, when they say they love a relaxed woman, they mean one who doesn’t argue. One who forgives too quickly. One who doesn’t make them question themselves.”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “Then they don’t love her — they consume her comfort. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Love is drawn to peace. Control is drawn to submission. A relaxed woman isn’t weak — she’s dangerous. Because she doesn’t need your validation to breathe.”

Host: The moonlight caught the side of her face, tracing the faint lines around her eyes — lines that spoke of laughter, pain, and survival. Jack looked at her for a moment longer than he meant to.

Jack: “Dangerous peace. I like that. You make it sound like stillness is rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. In a world addicted to anxiety, calm is a revolution.”

Host: The bar music shifted — slow jazz now, brushed drums and muted trumpet. The bartender lit another candle. The flame trembled in the wind, then steadied again, a small act of balance.

Jack: “You always talk like the world’s something to fight. Can’t peace just be… peace?”

Jeeny: “Not when it’s mistaken for compliance. You’ve seen it — men like the idea of a woman who doesn’t stress them. But what they really want is someone who absorbs their storms without ever raining back.”

Jack: (quietly) “You’re not wrong. I used to think I wanted that too.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I want someone who sits in the storm beside me — unbothered by the thunder.”

Host: A long pause stretched between them — not empty, but full of unsaid understanding. The city below flickered like a living constellation. Jeeny’s eyes softened, her voice lowering into something almost tender.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Rolland meant. Not serenity as surrender, but as strength. The woman who’s seen enough to stop fighting every shadow.”

Jack: “And you think that’s attainable?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. If we stop trying to control what can’t be controlled — love, time, people.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I said relaxed, not easy.”

Host: Jack laughed again — genuine this time, the sound cutting through the night air. The city answered with its own music — distant horns, laughter, the hum of persistence.

He turned to face her more fully now, elbows on the table, voice quieter.

Jack: “You know, I envy people like that — the calm ones. I’ve always been restless. Always needed to prove something, even when there’s nothing left to prove.”

Jeeny: “Restlessness is just fear disguised as motion. You run because standing still feels like failure.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I stopped running when I realized there’s no finish line — just the race itself.”

Host: The night air deepened. The flame between them danced higher, its light reflecting in Jeeny’s eyes. She looked utterly at ease — the kind of ease that came not from innocence, but from surviving her own chaos.

Jack noticed, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to quiet, listening.

Jack: “You fit his definition, you know.”

Jeeny: (raising a brow) “Whose?”

Jack: “Rolland’s. The woman with a relaxed attitude. You don’t chase. You don’t need to win. You just… are.”

Jeeny: (soft laugh) “You mistake acceptance for apathy. I care, Jack. I just don’t fight what’s already chosen me — or what’s already left.”

Jack: “That’s what I mean. You move through the world like it can’t hurt you anymore.”

Jeeny: “Oh, it still hurts. I’ve just stopped letting the pain negotiate.”

Host: The wind rose again, catching her hair and scattering it like silk across her face. She didn’t move to fix it. Jack watched the strands dance, then settle. Something in his chest softened — the familiar ache of admiration mixed with envy.

He turned away, staring down at the glowing city.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what men like Rolland admire — not the relaxation itself, but the grace to stay whole in a world that keeps trying to break you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because it takes strength to stay soft.”

Jack: “And courage to stay calm.”

Host: The moon climbed higher, whitening the marble tiles beneath their feet. The rain had stopped entirely now; the city smelled clean, new, forgiving. Jeeny picked up her drink, took a slow sip, then set it down again with a faint smile.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s another side to his quote.”

Jack: “What side?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wasn’t talking about women at all. Maybe he was talking about himself — about how love feels only when you’ve stopped forcing it.”

Jack: “So a relaxed attitude to love itself?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because love isn’t found. It’s allowed.”

Host: Silence again — deep, heavy, and warm. The kind that doesn’t need to be broken. Jack’s eyes lingered on Jeeny’s face, softened by moonlight, framed by the faint hum of the city’s heartbeat.

Jack: “You always make simplicity sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Because it is.”

Jack: (whispering) “Then maybe peace is the rarest form of passion.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to understand.”

Host: The clock on the rooftop struck midnight — its chime low and clear, echoing faintly through the streets below. The wind had gone still. The candle burned steady now, its flame perfectly still, perfectly alive.

Two people sat above the restless city — not chasing, not performing, just existing — and in their stillness, they found a strange, quiet electricity.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “So, tell me, Jack. Do you love a woman with a relaxed attitude?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No… I think I’m learning to become one.”

Host: The night deepened, but neither moved. Below them, the city exhaled — neon fading, lights dimming, the storm spent. Above, only the faint sound of a candle crackling, holding its flame steady — a small, unwavering act of peace in a world addicted to noise.