I love no woman, for love is a serious business, not a jest.

Host: The evening sky hung heavy above the harbor, a slow-burning sunset bleeding across the water. The air smelled of salt and smoke, and somewhere, a ship horn moaned through the fog — long, lonely, and unresolved. Inside a dim harbor bar, the kind that never truly slept, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other in the shadow of a flickering lamp.

The wooden table between them was scarred by years of half-finished confessions. The quote had just left Jeeny’s lips, her voice soft but deliberate:

“I love no woman, for love is a serious business, not a jest.” — Marie de France.

The words lingered like smoke in the space between them.

Jack: “Serious business, huh? That’s exactly why people should stay the hell away from it. Nothing ruins a good life faster than taking love too seriously.”

Jeeny: “And yet it ruins you just as much when you treat it like a game.”

Host: The lamplight trembled. A seagull cried in the distance. Jack leaned back, his grey eyes catching the reflection of the sea, a kind of weary defiance etched into his face.

Jack: “Love’s a deal without terms, Jeeny. You give everything, get uncertainty. You risk your peace, your logic, your identity — for what? A fleeting illusion? The poets dressed it up, but at its core, it’s bad business.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a business at all, Jack. Maybe that’s the mistake — weighing it like profit and loss. Love isn’t about logic; it’s about devotion. Marie de France said it was serious, not profitable.”

Jack: “Serious, yes. Dangerous, too. Look at her time — twelfth century, courtly love, men fighting wars for women who never wrote back. Seriousness killed half of Europe.”

Jeeny: “But it also inspired it. That’s the paradox. Love builds and breaks with the same hand. The fact that people risked everything for it — doesn’t that say something about its truth?”

Host: The wind howled faintly through a crack in the window, carrying the scent of rain. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the low light — fierce, unwavering. Jack poured another drink, the liquid catching the amber flame like bottled sunset.

Jack: “Truth? Love’s truth changes depending on who’s desperate enough to define it. The knight says it’s honor. The poet says it’s pain. The cynic says it’s biology. I say it’s delusion wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, quoting poets while calling them deluded.”

Jack: “Because they’re the only ones who tell the lie beautifully.”

Host: Her laugh came soft, like the sea licking the edge of the shore. But it carried sorrow beneath it.

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a lie, Jack. Maybe it’s just too real for those who expect it to be easy. Marie didn’t mock love — she respected it. She said it wasn’t a jest because it demanded everything serious in us: patience, courage, honesty. You don’t mock what can break you.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s why I don’t love. I’ve seen what happens when people take love too seriously — they turn into addicts. They mistake dependency for meaning.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen what happens when they take it too lightly — they turn hollow. They mistake avoidance for strength.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and heavy, like a tide pulling back before a storm. The bar had quieted; only the hum of a refrigerator and the distant patter of rain filled the air.

Jack: “You ever loved like that, Jeeny? The kind that isn’t a jest — the kind that strips you down to nothing?”

Jeeny: “Once. And it nearly destroyed me. But it also made me who I am. Love’s not supposed to be safe, Jack. It’s supposed to wake you up.”

Jack: “Or put you to sleep for good.”

Jeeny: “Only if you’re afraid of what it shows you.”

Host: A flicker of lightning flashed across the window, illuminating their faces — his, sharp and skeptical; hers, calm but burning.

Jack: “You sound like one of those tragic heroines. Love as enlightenment, pain as growth. But not everyone survives that fire.”

Jeeny: “No one does, not completely. That’s what makes it sacred. You don’t get to love without dying a little — ego, pride, fear — something has to go.”

Jack: “You’re talking about surrender. I don’t surrender, Jeeny. Not to anyone.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll never know it. Because love isn’t a battle to win — it’s a wound you carry willingly.”

Host: The storm broke, rain hammering against the window, the world outside reduced to water and noise. Jack stared into his glass as if the answers swirled at the bottom, but all he found was reflection.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But love’s just a contract people don’t know how to read. Promises they can’t keep, needs they can’t name. That’s why Marie was right — it’s business. It costs more than it’s worth.”

Jeeny: “Then why does everyone keep paying?”

Jack: “Habit. Hope. Stupidity. Pick one.”

Jeeny: “No. Because even the broken want to believe they’re worth something real. Love, when it’s true, reminds you of that. It’s not a jest because it’s the only game that forces you to be honest.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a whisper. Jack’s expression changed — not softened, but fractured, like something inside him had shifted under the weight of her words.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe people like Marie, people like you, turn love into a kind of religion because they can’t handle the silence of not being chosen?”

Jeeny: “Or maybe people like you pretend not to believe because you’re terrified of what happens when someone finally sees you.”

Host: The air between them snapped — fragile, electric. Jack set his drink down, slow, deliberate. His voice dropped, quieter now, almost raw.

Jack: “You think I’m afraid of love?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think you’re afraid of being loved. Because then your walls don’t mean anything anymore.”

Host: The barlight flickered, casting their shadows across the table — two forms leaning toward each other but never quite touching. Outside, the storm began to pass, leaving streaks of silver on the glass.

Jack: “If love is serious business, then maybe I’ve gone bankrupt.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop counting the losses and start learning the cost.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred. That’s why it terrifies people like you.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The rain ceased, and the sound of dripping water echoed like a clock ticking somewhere deep inside the heart.

Jack: “Maybe Marie wasn’t warning against love. Maybe she was warning against treating it like a joke — because that’s when it becomes cruel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love isn’t about jest. It’s about truth — brutal, unpolished, inconvenient truth. The kind that asks who you are when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “And what if the answer isn’t good?”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where love begins — not with perfection, but with courage.”

Host: The lamplight steadied, glowing warm again, bathing them in the color of forgiveness. Jack’s hand twitched, as if to reach for hers — but stopped halfway.

Jack: “You know… I think I could’ve loved you, Jeeny. If it weren’t such serious business.”

Jeeny: “And I think that’s the only reason it would’ve mattered.”

Host: A smile crossed her lips — sad, knowing, and alive. The sea outside calmed, the moonlight finally breaking through the clouds, casting a thin, silver path across the waves.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Marie meant all along — that love isn’t for the foolish. It’s for those willing to risk the jest of themselves.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because in the end, love’s not laughter or tragedy. It’s work — sacred, serious work of being human.”

Host: The camera pulls back, leaving them framed in soft amber light, two silhouettes carved against the restless sea. The storm has ended, but the air still hums with something unfinished — the echo of a truth neither can unhear.

And as the last raindrop falls, the harbor breathes — calm, eternal — as though love itself had passed through, quiet but undeniable.