I met Ashley two weeks before I married him. It was a joke-the

Host: The bar sat on the edge of the city — one of those forgotten places where the lights hum too long and the air smells faintly of loneliness and cheap perfume. The rain outside had quieted, but it still lingered on the windows, trickling down like memories trying to escape. Inside, the neon flickered pink and blue over empty glasses, casting shadows that trembled on the walls like ghosts of better nights.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, collar up, eyes tired, his hands circling a glass that had long since stopped being about the drink. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, her hair damp, her coat glistening from the drizzle. She didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there — the quiet kind of company you don’t have to earn.

Finally, she broke the silence.

Jeeny: “You ever do something so stupid you can’t even explain it to yourself?”

Jack: “Only every other Tuesday.”

Jeeny: “I was reading this quote earlier — Shannen Doherty said, ‘I met Ashley two weeks before I married him. It was a joke — the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done. Once I was married, I didn’t want to be a failure, so I stuck it out for six months, which was about six months too long.’”

Host: Jack lifted his glass, swirling the last of the amber, watching it catch the light like some kind of truth he wasn’t ready to swallow.

Jack: “Ah, the marriage mistake. Classic story. Except most people don’t admit it was a joke. Takes guts.”

Jeeny: “Or shame. Depends how you look at it.”

Jack: “I call that honesty. Brutal, unvarnished, the kind that only comes when you’ve got nothing left to protect.”

Jeeny: “You’d call it honesty. I’d call it heartbreak.”

Host: The bartender walked past, dropping a few peanuts on the counter, the kind that no one eats but everyone touches. The jukebox behind them hummed softly — an old country song about regret and love gone wrong.

Jack: “So, what do you think — was she wrong for marrying him?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. Maybe she was just lonely. You ever notice how loneliness makes bad ideas sound poetic?”

Jack: “I think it’s more biology than poetry. People don’t like being alone. So they grab, they settle, they invent love to fill the silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical even for you.”

Jack: “Cynical is just realism with experience.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Cynical is fear dressed as wisdom.”

Host: He laughed, low and dry, that kind of laugh that comes from a man who’s lost enough to find humor in the loss.

Jack: “Fair enough. You ever been that kind of fool?”

Jeeny: “I almost married someone once. We met at a film festival. He quoted Kierkegaard and ordered wine like he owned the vineyard. I thought that meant depth.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “He was deep — like a puddle.”

Host: Jack grinned, the kind that cracks open something old, something he thought he’d buried.

Jack: “So what stopped you?”

Jeeny: “My