I saw few die of hunger; of eating, a hundred thousand.

Host: The night was thick with mist, wrapping the narrow streets of the old town like a blanket of forgotten dreams. In the corner of a dimly lit tavern, two figures sat by a window, its glass trembling from the soft hum of a passing train. A single lamp cast a golden halo over their table, revealing the lines of a long conversation already begun.

Jack sat leaning back, his hands wrapped around a chipped cup of coffee gone cold. His eyes, sharp and gray, moved like a knife through the silence. Jeeny, opposite him, traced the rim of her glass with slow, thoughtful movements, her hair catching the faint light like ink in motion.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder, Jack, why Benjamin Franklin said that he saw few die of hunger, but a hundred thousand of eating?”

Jack: “Because he was a man of reason, Jeeny. He saw what people don’t — that excess kills more quietly than lack. People always think they die from what they don’t have. But it’s what they have too much of — food, comfort, power, pleasure — that rots them.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, making it creak. The streetlights flickered, their light dancing across the wet pavement. The air carried the smell of rain and smoke, like the breath of a city confessing its sins.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like we should be ashamed of living, Jack. Of enjoying what we’ve worked for. Isn’t eating also living? Isn’t desire part of being human?”

Jack: “Sure. Until desire becomes addiction. Until living turns into consuming. Look around — people devour everything. Food, resources, attention, even each other’s time. And then they call it success.”

Jeeny: “You’re talking about gluttony, not living. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Is there? Rome fell not from hunger, but from excess. The emperors feasted while the streets starved. And today? We’ve just made the banquet bigger. Obesity, pollution, overconsumption, the planet choking on our waste — Franklin was right. The hungry die visibly, but the well-fed die quietly, bloated with their own choices.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice carried a quiet fire. She leaned forward, her hands clasped around her glass as if holding on to something fragile.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right about the excess, Jack. But you forget what hunger means. You’ve never seen a child go to sleep with nothing in their stomach, or a mother pretend to have eaten so her son doesn’t feel guilty. You can talk about philosophy, but hunger is not just an idea. It’s a wound.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, it’s rare now — at least compared to before. We’ve built a world that feeds more people than ever. But what’s the cost? We’ve traded soul for stomach. We’ve created abundance, but not wisdom.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather we go back to starving for the sake of some moral balance?”

Jack: “No. I’d rather we remember that every mouthful carries a weight. Every desire fed must be paid for. The Earth doesn’t forget.”

Host: The rain began to fall, tapping against the window like the slow ticking of an unseen clock. The sound filled the silence between their words — not uncomfortable, but heavy, like truth itself had settled at the table with them.

Jeeny: “You speak as if pleasure is a crime.”

Jack: “Not a crime. A trap. Pleasure is how the world keeps us asleep. Like bread for the Romans, or screens for us now. We eat, we scroll, we sleep — and call that life.”

Jeeny: “You think the world is just an addiction loop. But what about gratitude? What about sharing a meal with someone you love, the taste, the warmth, the moment? That’s not decay, Jack. That’s meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t come from consumption, Jeeny. It comes from control. From knowing when to stop.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened on the handle of his cup. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes didn’t waver. The tension between them was almost visible — two flames burning in opposite directions, but from the same fire.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the famine in Bengal, Jack? 1943. Millions died not because there wasn’t enough food, but because greed kept it from them. It wasn’t hunger that killed them — it was selfishness. That’s your kind of control, isn’t it? The kind that decides who gets to eat.”

Jack: “That’s not control. That’s corruption. Don’t confuse the two. Control is discipline, not domination. What killed Bengal was the absence of balance — too much in one hand, nothing in the other.”

Host: The lamp above them flickered, throwing a long shadow across Jack’s face. His expression hardened for a moment, then softened, like a storm slowly breaking.

Jeeny: “You sound tired of humanity.”

Jack: “I am. Sometimes. We’ve learned how to make machines that feed us, but not souls that restrain us. Every innovation feels like another bite taken out of something sacred.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here we are — eating, talking, feeling. That’s the miracle, Jack. We’re capable of hunger and satisfaction. Maybe that’s what Franklin meant — not that eating kills, but that it reveals what we’re really hungry for.”

Host: Jeeny’s words lingered in the air. The rain outside had slowed to a gentle drizzle, like the world was listening too. Jack’s eyes drifted toward the window, where the faint reflection of the two of them shimmered in the glass — half real, half ghost.

Jack: “So you think it’s not about the food itself?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about the emptiness we try to fill. We eat not because we’re hungry, but because we’re afraid — of silence, of loneliness, of nothingness.”

Jack: “And you think love can feed that?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only thing that can.”

Host: The silence that followed was different now — no longer heavy, but full, like a pause before the music begins again. The rain had stopped. The air outside was clean, carrying the faint smell of wet earth and hope.

Jack: “Maybe Franklin wasn’t talking about death at all. Maybe he was warning us — that the way we live can be a kind of slow dying.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Dying of having too much, instead of being too little.”

Host: Jack looked at her, and for the first time that night, a small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his face — not of victory, but of understanding.

Jack: “You win this one, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We both do. As long as we still know when to stop — and when to share.”

Host: The lamp dimmed, the train’s echo faded into the distance, and the tavern sank into a gentle quiet. Outside, the clouds parted just enough for a thin line of moonlight to spill through the window, brushing against their faces — soft, fragile, and human.

And in that moment, both knew: hunger and feast were not enemies — they were the twin shadows of desire and wisdom, dancing together under the same light.