I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead.

Opening Scene
The evening had fallen, and the restaurant was alive with the buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. Low, ambient music drifted through the air, mixing with the savory scents of freshly prepared meals. The lighting was soft, casting shadows that added to the elegance of the room, while waiters moved smoothly between tables, their movements choreographed and practiced.

At the corner table, Jack sat back in his chair, his arms resting casually on the back, watching the bustle of the room. The candle on the table flickered, casting a soft glow on his face. Jeeny, opposite him, stirred her wine slowly, her gaze fixed on the glass. The conversation had come to a halt, and the tension between them had been palpable for some time now.

Jeeny:
She glanced up at him, her voice light but edged with curiosity. “You know, it’s funny how the simplest things can say so much about a person.” She set her wine glass down gently. “Like when Oscar Wilde said, ‘I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead.’” Her eyes gleamed with amusement, waiting for his response.

Jack:
He raised an eyebrow, the edge of his lips curling into a half-smile. “That’s Wilde for you. Always blunt, always theatrical.” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “But I get it. It’s about control, right? We want things on our terms, no exceptions. We don’t want to deal with the messiness of life, of something being in between. We want the finality.”

Jeeny:
She considered his words for a moment, her hands folded gently on the table. “You really think that’s what it’s about? Control?” She leaned in slightly, her voice soft but laced with thought. “Or is it about accepting death — or, perhaps, not having to confront it too directly?”

Jack:
His lips tightened, a flicker of something almost cynical crossing his face. “I think Wilde was poking fun at the absurdity of it all. The way we insist on perfection, even in the most mundane things, like food. We want it done, finished, complete, without having to deal with the consequences of its becoming.” He paused, his eyes narrowing again. “It’s like we want to bypass the process, the messy in-between, and jump straight to the end.”

Host:
The room around them hummed with the soft background chatter, the occasional clink of silverware mingling with the more profound silence of their conversation. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, its pale glow slipping through the window like a forgotten dream.

Jeeny:
Her voice was more contemplative now, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “I think there’s something more to it, Jack. Wilde wasn’t just talking about food. He was talking about our relationship with life itself. About our inability to embrace what is uncomfortable, the gray areas. We don’t like the idea of something being in flux, of being in that middle place between life and death. It makes us confront the things we’d rather ignore.”

Jack:
He chuckled, a dark humor in his tone. “You’re idealizing him. Wilde had a way of making everything sound profound, but sometimes he was just being outrageous for the sake of it.” He leaned back in his chair, watching Jeeny. “You’re talking about the gray areas — but sometimes those areas are just messy. People like certainty. They want to decide what’s right and what’s wrong. So yes, Wilde’s comment is about our inability to handle the discomfort, the unfinished business of life.”

Jeeny:
Her eyes softened, but there was no giving up in her tone. “Maybe. But think about it. What if Wilde was challenging us to accept imperfection, to see beauty in the unfinished, the uncertain? Isn’t it possible that we’re too obsessed with having everything figured out — having things just the way we want them, no matter the cost?” She sighed, her voice dropping lower. “Dead food might be what we want, but life is never that simple. The process of living, the changes we go through, the struggles — those are what shape us.”

Host:
A quiet moment passed between them, the weight of their words hanging like a suspended breath. The light of the candles flickered once more, casting gentle shadows across the table, as though reflecting the inner turmoil of the discussion. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the busy kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans continued as though nothing was amiss in the world. Jeeny’s expression, however, remained focused, intense in her contemplation.

Jack:
He broke the silence first, the sharpness in his voice softened now. “I get that, Jeeny. Life isn’t perfect. But we don’t have to embrace everything. Sometimes the mess just makes things harder. And you can’t just will yourself into accepting every little imperfection. At some point, we have to choose — to cut off what’s not working. Just like Wilde’s food — there’s a point where it has to be done. Finished.”

Jeeny:
Her fingers tapped the edge of her wine glass lightly, the sound rhythmic, almost like a slow heartbeat. “But isn’t that the problem? Choosing the end without embracing the process?” She paused, the room around them growing quieter as her thoughts formed. “You know, I think Wilde was asking us to consider what we’re missing by demanding everything to be finished. Sometimes, it’s the journey, the transition, that holds the most meaning. The part where something is still alive, still evolving. That’s where the beauty lies.”

Host:
The tension between them softened, the words hanging in the air like smoke, dissipating with each passing moment. In the corner, the soft hum of the restaurant seemed to continue uninterrupted, a reminder that life — even when discussed philosophically — moves forward, indifferent to the questions we ask.

Jack:
His voice was quieter now, reflective. “Maybe. But it still feels easier to settle for what’s certain, what’s already decided. Maybe Wilde just didn’t want to deal with the complexities — the layers of life that we keep trying to rush through.” He leaned forward again, meeting her gaze. “Sometimes, a clean, done meal is just what we need. No more thinking, no more struggle.”

Jeeny:
She smiled softly, but there was no judgment in her eyes. “Maybe. But isn’t there life even in the mess, Jack? Even in the in-between, where nothing is quite finished?”

Host:
The silence stretched between them, filled with a quiet understanding that neither could quite put into words. The room was still alive with movement, with the ebb and flow of life, and yet in that moment, Jack and Jeeny were alone in their thoughts, two souls searching for meaning in the seemingly mundane.

The candle flickered once more, and the moment passed, just as Wilde’s quote had. In the end, perhaps it was about more than just food. It was about the way we choose to look at life — finished or unfinished, dead or alive, messy or clean — and what we decide to embrace in the process.