I usually make up my mind about a man in ten seconds, and I very

Host: The rain had begun to fall, soft at first, like a whisper of doubt across the city’s night skin. Through the windowpane of a downtown bar, the lights of passing cars flickered like fading memories. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, jazz, and the faint hum of loneliness.

At a corner table, Jack sat with a half-finished whiskey, his grey eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Across from him, Jeeny cradled her coffee mug, tracing the rim with absent fingers. The hour was late — too late for small talk, just right for truths that only surface when the night feels infinite.

Jeeny: “You ever read what Margaret Thatcher once said?”

Jack: “About conquering or crying?” He smirked faintly, his voice husky, edged with iron and irony.

Jeeny: “No. About judgment. She said — ‘I usually make up my mind about a man in ten seconds, and I very rarely change it.’”

Host: The rain intensified, beating gently against the glass, like a thousand impatient hearts waiting for something to be understood.

Jack: “Makes sense. People show you who they are right away. The rest is just noise and excuses.”

Jeeny: “You believe that?”

Jack: “I know that. Watch how someone treats a waiter, or how they look at you when you disagree — you don’t need ten minutes, Jeeny. Ten seconds is enough.”

Host: He lifted his glass, the amber liquid catching the bar’s low light, a brief flare of gold before it disappeared into his throat.

Jeeny: “That’s awfully cold, Jack. People aren’t snapshots. They’re whole stories. And stories change.”

Jack: “No,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “people don’t change. They just hide better. Thatcher was right — the core of a person, that unspoken pulse, it’s there from the first handshake. You can feel it.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her hair falling, her eyes deep and unflinching.

Jeeny: “And how many people have you misjudged because of that certainty?”

Jack: “None that mattered.”

Jeeny: “That’s a convenient thing to believe, isn’t it?”

Host: The bar’s dim lights flickered, a neon sign outside blinking the word “OPEN” though the street was empty. The bartender wiped down the counter, glancing over, sensing the quiet weight of something human unfolding.

Jeeny: “You see, that’s what frightens me about that quote. The arrogance of it. Ten seconds — that’s not intuition, Jack. That’s prejudice dressed as instinct.”

Jack: “No. It’s clarity. People spend years lying to themselves about who others are. Thatcher didn’t. She trusted her gut. And gut instinct is the most honest judge you’ll ever meet.”

Jeeny: “Instinct is honest, yes. But it’s also blind. It’s shaped by your past — your fears, your scars, your disappointments. You mistake your trauma for truth.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck flexing. He looked away, watching the rain slide down the glass, streaks of silver cutting through the dark reflection of his own face.

Jack: “So, what, you’re saying we should doubt our first impressions?”

Jeeny: “Not doubt — question. There’s a difference. Because sometimes the person you think you know in ten seconds is the one who saves your life ten years later.”

Host: The music shifted, a low saxophone wailing, aching in slow, deliberate notes.

Jack: “You talk like every soul is redeemable.”

Jeeny: “I believe they are. History proves it. Malcolm X was once a thief before he became a leader. Mandela was labeled a terrorist before he became a symbol of peace. If the world had judged them in ten seconds, we’d have lost giants.”

Host: Her voice grew steadier, cutting through the air like light through smoke.

Jack: “Those are exceptions, Jeeny. Most people aren’t Mandela. Most never rise above who they are.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because no one gives them the space to rise. When you decide someone’s worth in ten seconds, you trap them in your own reflection. You make them prisoners of your certainty.”

Host: The rain outside softened, as if listening. Jack turned his glass slowly, the ice melting, the sound crisp and deliberate.

Jack: “You trust too easily. The world doesn’t reward patience — it devours it. Look around: business, politics, relationships. The faster you read people, the less they can fool you. That’s survival, not cynicism.”

Jeeny: “And yet, in that rush to survive, you stop living. You close the door on discovery — on the chance that someone could surprise you.”

Jack: “Surprise is a luxury. Truth is a necessity.”

Jeeny: “But what if truth takes time?”

Host: Silence. The kind that fills the chest before something breaks.

Jack: “I once hired a guy,” he said quietly. “Sharp suit, firm handshake, the right words. In ten seconds, I thought — this man is solid. Six months later, he stole from me. I learned my lesson.”

Jeeny: “And since then?”

Jack: “Since then, I learned to read quicker. I stopped forgiving what the eyes already knew.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you stopped trusting.”

Host: The bar clock ticked, its hands crawling through time like tired pilgrims. The smoke curled upward, slow and ghostly.

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. You’ve built walls so high around your certainty that even truth can’t climb in anymore.”

Host: Her words landed like quiet thunder. Jack said nothing, only stared at the rain, his reflection fractured by water and light.

Jeeny: “You know, when I first met you,” she continued softly, “I thought you were arrogant. Cold. A man who loved logic more than people. I made up my mind in ten seconds too.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And yet here you are.”

Jeeny: “Because I was wrong.”

Host: The confession lingered, trembling in the air like a flame caught between wind and surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you weren’t.”

Jeeny: “No. I was. I saw the armor, but not the wound beneath it.”

Host: The lights dimmed further as last call echoed across the room. A few stragglers left their seats, their laughter faint and hollow.

Jack: “So you think I should give people second chances?”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. Just the ones who make you curious enough to try.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked — his eyes softening, the steel melting into something almost tender.

Jack: “You know, Thatcher built empires on conviction. She never doubted her first instinct. That’s what made her powerful.”

Jeeny: “And lonely.”

Host: The word fell like a stone into water, rippling through the silence.

Jack: “Maybe power and loneliness are the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Only if you confuse strength with certainty.”

Host: The bartender switched off one of the lights, leaving their corner in a dim amber haze.

Jeeny: “You know what I think?”

Jack: “I’m afraid to ask.”

Jeeny: “That judgment is fast, but understanding is slow. The first shows the mind, the second shows the soul.”

Jack: “And which do you trust?”

Jeeny: “The one that listens longer.”

Host: For a long time, neither spoke. The rain eased, the streets glistened, the city sighed. Jack finished his drink and set the glass down, the sound of it gentle, like punctuation at the end of a confession.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe ten seconds isn’t enough to know a man.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, Jack, ten seconds is just the first heartbeat of a lifetime.”

Host: They rose from their seats, coats in hand. The door creaked open, and the cool night air embraced them. Rainlight shimmered on the pavement, reflecting two figures walking side by side — one of reason, one of faith, both learning that truth has many faces.

The camera of the world would have lingered there — on the glistening street, on two silhouettes disappearing into the tender quiet — as if to remind us all that even conviction, when touched by empathy, can soften into wisdom.

Host: And so, perhaps Thatcher was right — we do see something real in those first ten seconds. But maybe, just maybe, the greater courage lies not in seeing, but in choosing to look again.