I refuse to spend my life worrying about what I eat. There is no

Host:
The restaurant was one of those old-world places that seemed untouched by time — the kind where lamplight pooled like honey on polished mahogany, and the faint scent of butter and wine floated in the air like memory. A slow piano tune drifted from the corner, graceful and melancholy, the kind that made people speak softer, even when they didn’t mean to.

Outside, the rain was falling again — a curtain of silver against the dark city glass — but inside, the world was warm. Two figures sat by the window, half in shadow, half in glow.

Jack swirled his glass of red wine, his eyes gleaming with the lazy spark of a man who had long since made peace with excess. Across from him, Jeeny sat with a plate of vegetables she’d barely touched, her hands resting thoughtfully on the tablecloth.

She watched him for a moment, then said, her voice quiet but certain:

Jeeny:
(reading from her phone, the words slow and deliberate)

“I refuse to spend my life worrying about what I eat. There is no pleasure worth forgoing just for an extra three years in the geriatric ward.”
— John Mortimer

Host:
The words landed like a toast — ironic, defiant, alive. Jack grinned, raising his glass slightly in salute.

Jack:
“Finally, a philosophy I can drink to.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
“I thought you’d like that one.”

Jack:
“What’s not to like? Mortimer gets it. Life’s too short to turn every meal into a medical consultation. If pleasure’s a sin, then I’ll die baptized in butter.”

Jeeny:
“Pleasure isn’t the sin, Jack. Ignorance is. You call it freedom — I call it forgetting.”

Host:
The piano paused for a moment, then started again — a slower, darker tune. Candlelight flickered between them, catching the small lines at the corners of their eyes, the map of years they both pretended not to notice.

Jack:
“You really think living cautiously adds anything? People cut out joy like it’s sugar, counting days as if that’s living longer. They don’t live longer — they just take longer to die.”

Jeeny:
“And you think indulgence makes you immortal?”

Jack:
“It makes me human.”

Jeeny:
“It also makes you dependent — on taste, on comfort, on distraction. You don’t want to live well, Jack. You just don’t want to feel mortal.”

Host:
Her words struck softly, but they hit deep. Jack’s grin faltered, replaced by something thoughtful — or maybe just tired.

He set down his glass, tracing the condensation ring it left behind.

Jack:
“Maybe. But you can’t deny that pleasure is proof of life. Every taste, every bite, every glass — it’s a way of saying, I’m still here.”

Jeeny:
“And when that proof becomes the only thing you chase? What then?”

Jack:
“Then I’ve at least chased something that tastes real.”

Jeeny:
(quietly)
“Even if it kills you early?”

Jack:
(grinning again)
“Better early and full than late and empty.”

Host:
The rain outside began to quicken, as if the sky were arguing too.

Jeeny:
“You sound like a man in love with defiance, not life.”

Jack:
“Defiance is life. Every breath is an act against entropy. Every meal, every laugh, every glass raised — rebellion against the slow decay of the universe.”

Jeeny:
“And yet you can’t defy the body. It remembers. Every indulgence, every recklessness. It’s not rebellion, Jack. It’s negotiation — and the body always wins in the end.”

Host:
The waiter passed, discreet as a shadow, replacing a half-empty breadbasket. The scent of rosemary and garlic filled the air.

Jack:
“You really think moderation’s a virtue? I think it’s just fear in a prettier dress.”

Jeeny:
“And I think recklessness is cowardice in disguise — fear of stillness, fear of time.”

Jack:
“Maybe. But at least it’s fear that tastes good.”

Host:
A small laugh escaped her — not of amusement, but resignation. She reached for her glass of water, swirling it like a mirror between them.

Jeeny:
“You know what I think, Jack? I think Mortimer wasn’t talking about food at all.”

Jack:
“Then what?”

Jeeny:
“About control. About obsession. About the way we waste our lives measuring and managing instead of living.”

Jack:
“Then we agree. He’s saying freedom lies in indulgence.”

Jeeny:
“No, he’s saying freedom lies in release. You and I just define that differently.”

Host:
The music shifted again — a jazz number now, low and slow, the kind that made conversation feel like choreography.

Jack:
“You ever notice, Jeeny, how every philosophy boils down to the same question? What are we willing to lose to feel alive?”

Jeeny:
“And what are we willing to lose to stay alive.”

Jack:
“So you’d trade taste for time?”

Jeeny:
“No. I’d trade obsession for peace. But peace, Jack — not pleasure — is the truest indulgence.”

Host:
Her words hung there, shimmering in the space between them. The rain slowed; the piano trailed off into silence.

Jack:
“You make peace sound delicious.”

Jeeny:
“It is — if you learn to savor it.”

Host:
He smiled then, the kind of smile that had forgotten how to hide its fatigue. He lifted his glass again, not in rebellion, but reverence.

Jack:
“Then maybe that’s the secret. Not to deny the world’s flavors — but to stop letting them define us.”

Jeeny:
(smiling)
“Exactly. To eat, to drink, to live — but not to escape.”

Host:
Outside, the storm eased, leaving only the gentle hum of the city’s pulse. The light from the streetlamps caught the curve of her smile, and his reflection shimmered faintly in her glass.

Jack:
“You think we’ll end up in that geriatric ward one day?”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But I’ll bring tea and poetry. You can bring wine and rebellion.”

Jack:
(laughing)
“Deal. We’ll toast to decay — and call it grace.”

Host:
The piano resumed, soft and nostalgic. Around them, the restaurant seemed to exhale — the air heavy with warmth, laughter, and quiet philosophy.

They raised their glasses — one of wine, one of water — and clinked them gently, the sound pure and brief, like a promise made between opposites.

Outside, the sky cleared. The streets glowed silver beneath the lamplight.

And as they sat there, surrounded by the fleeting beauty of ordinary pleasure, time itself seemed to pause — not conquered, not defied, just understood.

Because in that golden, trembling moment, both indulgence and restraint shared the same truth:
To live fully is not to count your years,
but to taste them —
every last, beautiful bite.