I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not

Host: The restaurant lights glowed warm and low, like a memory trying to stay awake. Outside, rain slid down the window glass, turning the streetlamps into melting amber halos. The air inside was a mixture of garlic, sea salt, and civilization’s quiet vanity — white napkins folded like origami, soft jazz pretending not to be background noise.

At a corner table, Jack sat across from Jeeny, a plate of oysters glistening between them. The shells shimmered, cool and damp, like tiny moons resting on ice.

A quote card lay propped against the wine bottle — a bit of restaurant whimsy:
“I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.” — Woody Allen.

Jeeny: (smiling as she read it) “I love that. Brutally honest, in the most neurotic way possible.”

Jack: “It’s not neurotic. It’s rational. He’s saying what everyone thinks and no one admits — we don’t want to watch the fight for life on our plate.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “You’re afraid of oysters, aren’t you?”

Jack: “I’m not afraid. I just don’t negotiate with my dinner.”

Jeeny: “You mean you don’t like the reminder that life feeds on life.”

Jack: (dryly) “I prefer my existential crises medium-rare.”

Host: The waiter passed by, refilling glasses. The sound of rain grew louder against the windows, the world outside turning to silver noise, while inside, their words sharpened — small, bright blades of wit and philosophy disguised as dinner talk.

Jeeny: “You know, that quote’s not really about food.”

Jack: “Of course it is. It’s about knowing where you draw the line between appetite and morality.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s about denial. We want pleasure without consequence. Comfort without confrontation.”

Jack: “You say that like you’re not enjoying your wine.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Touché. But think about it, Jack — he’s rejecting the rawness of life itself. Oysters are alive, slippery, unpredictable — like love, pain, or truth. He wants it safe, cooked, controlled.”

Jack: “And you think eating raw things makes you enlightened?”

Jeeny: “Not enlightened. Just honest. We spend our lives sanitizing everything — even emotion. We pasteurize the soul until it tastes clean.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. And unhygienic.”

Host: She grinned, the kind of grin that challenges and invites all at once. Jack picked up his fork, prodding at the oysters with the expression of a man facing philosophy disguised as seafood.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? This quote isn’t about courage or denial. It’s about boundaries. The oyster’s alive, the cow’s dead, the fruit doesn’t care — everyone gets to choose the distance between themselves and the suffering they can stomach.”

Jeeny: “So eating becomes a moral mirror?”

Jack: “Everything does. The way you eat, the way you love, the way you kill time — it all says something about what you’re willing to touch.”

Jeeny: “Then what does that make you?”

Jack: “Someone who doesn’t mistake proximity for depth.”

Jeeny: “Or someone afraid to feel.”

Host: The candlelight flickered, casting shadows that moved like thoughts trying to escape. The restaurant noise faded into a kind of intimate hush, the space between them filling with tension shaped like understanding.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that people like you — logical, careful — talk about control like it’s virtue?”

Jack: “It is.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s armor. You control what you eat, what you feel, what you let in. But life doesn’t ask for consent.”

Jack: “No, it just takes. And that’s why I choose what I can.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the trick, Jack. You think choosing means freedom, but it’s just another form of fear. Fear dressed up as autonomy.”

Jack: (leaning back) “And what would you call it?”

Jeeny: “Honesty. Letting things in — the ugly, the raw, the alive — without trying to disinfect them.”

Host: The waiter approached again, smiling politely, asking if they’d like dessert. Jack waved him off. Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes never leaving Jack’s. It was less a debate now, more a slow unveiling — one that neither of them entirely controlled.

Jack: “You really think that’s what living is? Letting the world crawl under your skin?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s how empathy starts. You can’t love something if you’re unwilling to be touched by its mess.”

Jack: “So pain is the price of honesty?”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And oysters are the lesson.”

Jeeny: (raising her glass) “Exactly. They’re inconvenient truth — slippery, alive, and waiting for your courage.”

Jack: “Or foolishness.”

Jeeny: “Courage and foolishness are siblings. They both make you human.”

Host: The candle flame trembled, reflected in her glass, a tiny fire inside liquid gold. Jack looked at it, and for a moment, it felt as though the entire conversation had reduced to that image — a small, bright thing fighting not to go out.

Jeeny: “You know what your problem is, Jack?”

Jack: “I’m listening.”

Jeeny: “You want everything sterilized — emotions, choices, even the truth. You think being untouched means being safe, but it just means being absent.”

Jack: “And you want everything to sting.”

Jeeny: “Because at least pain proves the pulse.”

Host: A beat of silence. The rain softened, turning into a steady whisper. Jack finally reached for an oyster, his hand steady but reluctant.

He picked it up, studied it, as if it were a confession rather than food.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what’s funny? You talk about life being raw, unfiltered. But everyone has a threshold — even you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d rather live tasting too much than nothing at all.”

Jack: “So you’d rather be wounded than safe.”

Jeeny: “If safety costs aliveness, yes.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You’re braver than I am.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “No. Just hungrier.”

Host: He lifted the oyster, hesitated, then finally slid it from the shell. The taste hit — cold, salty, electric — a shock of sea and survival all at once. His eyes widened, not from disgust, but from realization.

Jack: “You know something?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “It’s not bad.”

Jeeny: “It’s alive.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (pausing) “Maybe that’s what I’ve been avoiding — not death, but life that still moves.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside stopped, leaving only the sound of dripping water from the eaves — slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat learning patience again.

The candle burned lower, the room settling into that post-conversation stillness where understanding hums louder than words.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — the point was never about oysters. It’s about your relationship with risk. With vitality. With the things that aren’t fully dead yet.”

Jack: “And you think the secret to living is learning to taste it?”

Jeeny: “No. The secret is learning not to flinch.”

Host: He nodded, slowly, his smile small, but real.

The camera pulled back, showing them through the restaurant window — two silhouettes, light and shadow, still talking, still human.

Outside, the world glistened, reborn by rain, alive again — like everything should be.

And above the empty plate, the quote card still stood, bold in its wit, sharp in its irony:

“I will not eat oysters. I want my food dead. Not sick. Not wounded. Dead.” — Woody Allen.

Host: Yet in that moment,
it wasn’t just oysters that were alive —
it was them,
tasting, finally, the messy, raw pulse
of what it means
to be alive without armor.