If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, we have at least

Host: The afternoon hung in that strange, suspended light between humor and melancholy, the kind that made truth feel both obvious and unbelievable. A small park café, half-empty, half-forgotten, sat under the slow drizzle of a grey London sky. Pigeons strutted, children laughed distantly, and a single duck floated on the pond like a philosopher pretending not to be one.

Inside, at a corner table, Jack sat with his usual cynical precision—a cup of black coffee, a half-eaten croissant, and a newspaper folded to an article about “Authenticity in Modern Life.” Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, eyes soft, distant, as though she were listening to the world’s quiet absurdities with tenderness instead of irony.

The café smelled of rain, wet wool, and faint cigarette smoke—the scent of small truths waiting to be noticed.

Jack: “You ever read Douglas Adams’ line about the duck? ‘If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck… we might just have a small aquatic bird of the family anatidae.’ It’s genius. Pure sarcasm at the expense of human denial.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s not sarcasm at all. Maybe it’s a plea for honesty—an invitation to stop pretending we don’t see what’s right in front of us.”

Host: The rain tapped gently against the glass, rhythmically, like the pacing of an unseen argument.

Jack: “Oh, come on. Adams was mocking us—our obsession with overcomplicating the obvious. We see truth, but we want to dissect it until it stops being uncomfortable. We’d rather write a report on the duck than admit it’s quacking at us.”

Jeeny: “And yet, isn’t that the problem? We analyze what should be felt, doubt what should be trusted. Maybe the duck isn’t the point—it’s the blindness we bring to it.”

Host: Jack smirked, the kind of smile that flickered like a dying match.

Jack: “You really think people don’t see reality? No, Jeeny. They see it fine. They just don’t like it. We hide behind words like ‘complexity’ or ‘context’ so we don’t have to face the duck sitting in our moral pond.”

Jeeny: “But what if the duck isn’t just a duck, Jack? What if it’s metaphor—what if it quacks because that’s the only way to be heard in a world that’s deaf to simplicity?”

Jack: “So now the duck is a poet?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Maybe every truth is.”

Host: A pause, filled by the sound of a nearby coffee machine hissing, as though it, too, were sighing at the conversation’s weight. The duck outside flapped its wings, scattering droplets like punctuation marks in a divine sentence.

Jack: “You make everything mystical, Jeeny. But Adams was pointing at human stupidity. Our refusal to trust plain evidence. You remember the financial crash of 2008? The signs were there—quacking loudly. But everyone said, ‘No, no, these aren’t ducks, they’re complex financial instruments.’ And then, well—boom. Feathers everywhere.”

Jeeny: “Fair point. But maybe that’s what Adams loved about us—the tragic comedy of pretending not to see. We crave certainty but live by denial. We laugh at the duck until it bites us.”

Host: The light shifted, a sunbeam sneaking through the clouds, landing squarely on Jeeny’s face. It caught the brown of her eyes, turning them into small fires of empathy.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I think you like the ambiguity. You romanticize confusion because it gives people excuses.”

Jeeny: “No, I forgive confusion. Because clarity isn’t as easy as it sounds. Sometimes things look like ducks but aren’t. Sometimes people quack to hide pain.”

Jack: “So we should just ignore facts for feelings?”

Jeeny: “No. We should see both—the feathers and the fear.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, a faint grin betraying his amusement. The rain had turned from drizzle to a steady fall, the pond outside rippling in small, concentric truths.

Jack: “You know what your problem is, Jeeny? You keep giving metaphors feelings. The world would be simpler if we called things what they are. Ducks. Lies. Hypocrisy. Done.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, simplicity without compassion becomes brutality. Calling things by their name is fine—but understanding why they became that name, that’s wisdom.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set down her cup, not from fear, but from intensity—the kind that blurs thought and feeling into one unstoppable force.

Jack: “Wisdom doesn’t feed anyone. Look around—politics, media, relationships—everyone’s drowning in explanations. Nobody’s willing to just see. The world’s burning and we’re still arguing about whether it’s a metaphorical or literal fire.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why Adams laughed. Because he knew we’d rather debate the definition of a duck than admit it’s in our reflection.”

Host: A moment of silence settled between them, heavy but luminous. Outside, a child tossed breadcrumbs into the pond. The duck, unbothered, approached gently, confident in its nature, needing no validation.

Jack: “You ever envy it? The duck?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “It doesn’t question itself. Doesn’t care what others call it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It just is. Maybe that’s the most radical act—to live without performing, to quack without apology.”

Host: The rain softened, dissolving into a fine mist that blurred the line between sky and water. The city’s sounds began to rise—buses groaning, voices waking, life returning.

Jack: “So, you’re saying the duck is enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the duck is honesty. And honesty’s the rarest form of intelligence.”

Jack: “But honesty doesn’t protect you. It makes you vulnerable.”

Jeeny: “So does flight.”

Host: The duck took off, suddenly, its wings slicing through the air, scattering silver droplets in a graceful arc. The sound of its wings echoed across the pond like laughter—both mockery and music.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever learn, Jeeny? To stop overthinking the obvious?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we’ll learn to love the absurdity of it. To find peace in the paradox—that knowing the duck is simple doesn’t make being human any less complex.”

Host: Jack laughed, quietly, genuinely, the kind of laugh that releases more than amusement—it releases armor.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why Adams was right to make it funny. We’d never face the truth if we couldn’t laugh at how ridiculous we are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Comedy is philosophy in disguise. It’s how truth sneaks past our defenses.”

Host: The barista wiped the counter, the light flickered, and somewhere in the corner, the radio crackled with an old Beatles tune. Jack and Jeeny sat quietly for a moment, their eyes drifting to the pond, where the ripples still glimmered from the duck’s departure.

Jack: “So, in the end, maybe the duck is both literal and symbolic—proof and parable at once.”

Jeeny: “Like all truths worth keeping.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the park glistening, a mosaic of puddles reflecting sky. Jack stood, reaching for his coat, his expression lighter, his voice quieter.

Jack: “Maybe we don’t need to overthink it anymore. If it looks like truth, and sounds like truth, maybe it’s time we accept it as truth.”

Jeeny: “Or at least, Jack—have the humility to admit it might be.”

Host: They walked out together, the bell above the café door chiming softly as they stepped into the fresh air. The pond shimmered, empty but alive, the ripples fading into stillness.

And somewhere, carried on the wind, there came the faintest echo of a quack—a reminder, absurd and beautiful, that sometimes truth wears feathers, and the wisest thing we can do is laugh, listen, and simply recognize it for what it is.