I love mayonnaise. Every birthday when I was a kid I'd go to

Host: The diner sat at the edge of town, glowing like a flickering ember in the dark stretch of midnight asphalt. Its neon sign, half-broken, buzzed faintly in the cool air, spelling out “Open” with a stubborn hum. Inside, the smell of grease, coffee, and old vinyl hung like an unspoken memory. The jukebox murmured an old rock ballad in the corner, cracked but alive.

Jack sat in a red booth, sleeves rolled up, grey eyes fixed on a plate of half-eaten fries. Jeeny slid in across from him, her black hair still wet from the drizzle outside, brown eyes glowing with quiet amusement.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that burger for five minutes. You gonna eat it or interview it?”

Jack: (smirking) “I’m thinking. There’s something sacred about the first bite. The anticipation.”

Jeeny: “Sacred? It’s a burger, Jack.”

Host: Jack picked up a packet of mayonnaise, tore it open, and squeezed a generous swirl onto his plate.

Jack: “Blake Anderson once said, ‘I love mayonnaise. Every birthday when I was a kid I’d go to Black Angus and just dip my burger in mayo.’ You know what that is? That’s honesty. The kind of honesty you don’t get in people anymore.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “Honesty? That’s cholesterol, Jack.”

Host: Jack laughed, the kind of rough, genuine laugh that cracked through the usual armor of cynicism he wore. The neon light flashed across his face, alternating between shadow and fire.

Jack: “No, think about it. Everyone’s too busy pretending to have refined taste. Kale smoothies, artisan bread, truffle oil on everything. But Anderson—he celebrates what he loves without shame. He doesn’t dress it up. He just dips his burger in mayo like a damn kid and says, ‘Yeah, I love this.’ That’s freedom.”

Jeeny: “Freedom?”

Jack: “Yeah. The freedom to be unfiltered. To love something stupid, to not care how it looks.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, folding her arms, a faint smile forming on her lips, though her eyes carried a deeper light — a questioning one.

Jeeny: “You call that freedom, Jack. I call it indulgence. It’s easy to drown in what feels good and call it authenticity. But isn’t restraint part of who we are, too? Doesn’t meaning come from what we choose not to indulge?”

Jack: “Oh, here we go — the moral high ground.”

Jeeny: “It’s not moral, it’s human. We grow by resisting. If we give in to every comfort, every craving, we stop evolving.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk. Are you gonna tell me to meditate before I eat my fries next?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But maybe you should think about why you’re eating them.”

Host: The rain outside turned heavier, its rhythm tapping against the glass like a drummer keeping time with their argument. Jack wiped his hands on a napkin, his tone turning sharper, his eyes cooler.

Jack: “So what, we’re supposed to live like robots? Deny every instinct? I’m tired of people pretending pleasure’s a sin. The kid dipping his burger in mayo is more alive than the grown man counting calories in a conference room.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about denial, Jack. It’s about awareness. There’s a difference between enjoying something and being consumed by it. You ever notice how comfort can become a cage?”

Host: She reached for her coffee, took a slow sip, the steam curling up between them like a fragile veil. Her voice softened.

Jeeny: “When you were younger, what did you love just because it made you feel… safe?”

Jack: (hesitating) “My dad’s garage. The smell of oil, the sound of the radio. It was… simple. He didn’t say much, but he’d hand me a wrench and we’d fix things. I guess that was our version of dipping burgers in mayo.”

Host: The air shifted, quiet now, more intimate. The neon light flickered again, casting a slow pulse across the booth.

Jeeny: “Then you understand. Sometimes it’s not the mayo or the burger — it’s the memory. The act of returning to something that felt pure before the world told you it was silly.”

Jack: “So you agree with me.”

Jeeny: “Partly. But I think what Anderson was really saying — even if he didn’t know it — was that happiness is fragile. The things that give us joy when we’re young, we keep chasing as adults. Only now we hide them behind sophistication, or irony, or guilt.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, tracing the edges of the plate, lost in thought. The music from the jukebox drifted — an old tune about home and time.

Jack: “So, what? You’re saying mayonnaise is a metaphor for innocence?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a reminder that the small, ridiculous things — the ones that make no logical sense — are what make us human. The taste of childhood, the comfort of repetition.”

Jack: “That’s beautiful, but you’re romanticizing it. Some people just like mayo.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “And some people hide behind logic so they don’t have to admit what they miss.”

Host: Jack’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet melancholy. He looked out the window, where raindrops blurred the streetlights into small galaxies of gold.

Jack: “You think we ever get that back? The way things felt when we were kids?”

Jeeny: “Not exactly. But we can remember the honesty of it. The way we loved without performance. Maybe that’s why Anderson remembered that burger — not for the taste, but for the truth in it.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups. The steam rose like a ghost, curling between them, warm and fleeting.

Jack: “You know, for a second there, I almost believed you were talking about love, not mayonnaise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not so different. Both are messy, irrational, a little embarrassing… but worth savoring.”

Host: They both laughed, softly, like two people who had finally caught the joke the universe had been telling them all along.

The rain had slowed to a gentle mist, the diner glowing warmly against the empty street. Outside, the asphalt shone like black glass, reflecting the neon sign: Open.

Jack: “You ever notice, Jeeny, the best moments in life always happen in places like this? A cheap diner, a cold night, a stupid conversation that turns into something real.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the real stuff doesn’t need a stage. Just two people, and maybe a little mayonnaise.”

Host: Jack picked up his burger, dipped it boldly into the mayo, and took a bite. He closed his eyes, smiled, and for a fleeting moment, looked younger.

The jukebox clicked, shifting songs. The lights dimmed. The rain stopped.

Host: And in that still moment — somewhere between grease and grace, laughter and memory — the world felt honest again.