I would go out with women my age, but there are no women my age.

Host: The late-night diner buzzed with the gentle hum of neon and memory. Outside, the street was nearly empty — rain-slick and silent, the kind of city night where even time seems to stop for a cigarette break. Inside, the jukebox played something old, a soft croon from a voice that had outlived its own fame.

Host: At a booth by the window, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. A half-empty coffee pot sat between them. The linoleum floors gleamed faintly under the red glow of the neon sign that blinked “OPEN 24 HOURS.”

Host: On the wall beside them, a framed photo of George Burns — bow tie, cigar, that timeless smirk — smiled down from another century.

Jeeny: (grinning) “George Burns once said, ‘I would go out with women my age, but there are no women my age.’”
(She stirs her coffee.) “It’s funny — but it’s tragic, too, isn’t it?”

Jack: (smirking) “Yeah. That’s the beauty of Burns — he made mortality sound like a punchline.”

Jeeny: “It’s not just mortality. It’s loneliness. That dry kind — the kind that laughs at itself because the alternative is crying.”

Jack: “You think he meant it that way? I always thought he was just being cheeky.”

Jeeny: “He was. But even jokes have ghosts in them.”

Host: The rain tapped gently against the window, steady as a heartbeat. The neon from the sign flickered across their faces — red, white, red — painting them in rhythm with the pulse of the old diner clock.

Jack: “You know what’s brilliant about that quote? He wasn’t just talking about women. He was talking about time. About how, when you live long enough, everything familiar disappears — lovers, friends, even the language of your youth.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like being fluent in a world that no one else speaks anymore.”

Jack: “Exactly. You’re surrounded by life, but you can’t join the conversation.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “So you make jokes instead.”

Jack: “And smoke cigars. And tell the same stories. Because humor becomes a kind of rebellion — a way to tell death you’re still the one with the mic.”

Host: A waitress passed by, refilling their cups without asking. She smiled faintly, the kind of smile born from too many night shifts and too many quiet people trying to outtalk silence.

Jeeny: “I always admired people like Burns. They grow old, but they never shrink. They keep their wit sharp — like armor.”

Jack: “Because wit is dignity in disguise.”

Jeeny: “And laughter is defiance.”

Jack: “The last weapon left when everything else fades.”

Host: The jukebox switched tracks, the needle catching before settling into a new song — a slow jazz tune, melancholic but warm.

Jeeny: (thoughtful) “You know, there’s something fascinating about how he said it: ‘There are no women my age.’ It’s as if he’s standing in a world where time has betrayed him — where his memories outnumber his tomorrows.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s gallows humor with grace. He’s not bitter; he’s bemused. Like a man who made peace with the absurdity of outliving his own era.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. He’s not mourning — he’s marveling.”

Jack: “Exactly. He turned survival into comedy. Most people turn it into complaint.”

Host: Outside, the streetlight flickered, casting shadows that moved like old film — grainy, imperfect, nostalgic.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, though. We think aging means losing relevance. But Burns aged into legend. His jokes became proof of endurance.”

Jack: “Right. The man outlived his contemporaries, his critics, and probably his punchlines — but he never outlived his humor.”

Jeeny: “Maybe humor is the soul’s way of staying young.”

Jack: “Or sane.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, sometimes.”

Host: Jack leaned back in the booth, his eyes distant for a moment.

Jack: “You know, I think when Burns said that, he was also talking about love — not just age. That no matter how old you get, love still feels like youth. You still crave the spark, the chase, the flirtation. Only now you’re chasing ghosts.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And the ghosts flirt back, sometimes.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The two of them fell silent for a moment, listening to the rain and the slow hum of the jazz.

Jeeny: “You think growing old alone is as bad as people make it sound?”

Jack: “Not if you carry your memories right. If you wear them lightly — like old clothes, not armor.”

Jeeny: “I think Burns did. He laughed his way through solitude. That’s a kind of grace, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Yeah. A very rare one.”

Host: The clock ticked louder now, or maybe the night had just grown quieter.

Jeeny: “You know, I hope I have that kind of humor when I’m old. Not the self-deprecating kind, but the wise kind — the kind that winks at time.”

Jack: “You already do. You just hide it behind seriousness.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And you hide yours behind cynicism.”

Jack: “Fair enough.”

Host: The waitress turned the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED”, but left the door unlocked — the quiet signal that the last cup of coffee could still linger a while.

Jeeny: “You know, Burns once said he’d rather be a failure at something he loved than a success at something he didn’t. I think that’s why people loved him. He made age look like an art, not an affliction.”

Jack: “Yeah. He wasn’t running from time — he was dancing with it.”

Jeeny: “And laughing while it stepped on his toes.”

Jack: “Perfect metaphor.”

Host: They both laughed softly — not the bright laughter of youth, but the deep kind that lingers in the chest, rich with recognition.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “When we’re young, we fall in love with people. When we’re older, we fall in love with time — the moments, the memories, the things we survived.”

Jack: “And sometimes we fall in love with what’s left of our humor.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the window streaked but clear. The city outside gleamed under wet streetlights — still, watchful, eternal.

And in that moment, George Burns’s words felt less like a joke and more like a revelation — a truth disguised in laughter:

that aging is not loss, but perspective;
that to outlive your generation
is to become the punchline of eternity,
and the hero of survival;
and that humor,
when tempered by years,
is not denial of death —
but the final applause for life.

Host: Jack looked up at the photo of Burns one last time, raising his cup.

Jack: “To George.”

Jeeny: (lifting her cup) “To the man who proved time can’t kill timing.”

Host: Their cups clinked softly.

And outside, under the last fading neon,
the city smiled —
as if somewhere, a cigar glowed
and a voice laughed,
timeless, irreverent,
immortal.