If music be the food of love, play on.

Host: The jazz bar was a hushed cathedral of sound, the kind that only existed after midnight — where the lights hung low and golden, and every note felt like it was born from the dark. A piano murmured softly in the corner, each chord dissolving into cigarette smoke and memory. The air was thick with the scent of bourbon, wood, and loneliness disguised as laughter.

At a small table by the window, Jack sat, his hands wrapped around a glass he’d long since stopped drinking from. The streetlights outside reflected in the glass — tiny galaxies swirling in amber. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on her hand, her eyes alive with that rare, quiet light that came from feeling deeply.

On the stage, a singer crooned an old standard — her voice a low confession that could make anyone believe in heartbreak again.

Between them lay a crumpled napkin, ink bleeding softly across its fibers:
“If music be the food of love, play on.” — William Shakespeare.

Jeeny: (smiling as she smooths the napkin) “You always pick the quotes that sound like they’re trying to seduce the air.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “Blame Shakespeare. He made longing sound like logic.”

Jeeny: “It’s dangerous, though — the idea that love feeds on music. What happens when the song ends?”

Jack: (leaning back) “Then you start over. That’s what the repeat button’s for.”

Host: The singer’s voice swelled, sliding effortlessly into a higher register — a soft ache wrapped in melody. The room seemed to breathe with her. Conversations fell to murmurs. Glasses clinked. A man at the bar sighed like someone remembering who he used to be.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You know, I’ve always thought love was more like silence than song.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Silence? You, of all people, believe that?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Music ends. Silence stays.”

Jack: “That’s the saddest definition of love I’ve ever heard.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then you’ve never been in love long enough.”

Host: The pianist hit a minor chord — deliberate, melancholy, as if echoing her thought. Jack’s eyes flicked toward the stage, then back to her.

Jack: “So you think love fades?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it transforms. It starts as a song you can’t stop humming. Then one day, it becomes the silence you can’t imagine living without.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And somewhere in between, it breaks you.”

Jeeny: “Only if you fight the rhythm.”

Host: Her words landed gently but carried the weight of something lived — not theory, not metaphor, but history. Jack turned the glass slowly in his hand, the condensation leaving faint circles on the wood like ghostly fingerprints.

Jack: “You ever notice how music and love have the same anatomy? Crescendo, pause, repetition, and sometimes… dissonance.”

Jeeny: (eyes glinting) “Yes. And sometimes the wrong note is what makes the melody unforgettable.”

Jack: (smiling) “That’s why I like jazz.”

Jeeny: “Because it forgives mistakes?”

Jack: “Because it makes them part of the music.”

Host: The singer paused, letting the band fill the space — the bass, the drums, the saxophone — all colliding gently in beautiful, deliberate imperfection. The audience swayed in a kind of collective dream, caught between awareness and surrender.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, there’s something about this place. It feels like the world stops pretending for a while. Everyone here’s trying to translate emotion into sound.”

Jack: “And failing beautifully.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: He looked at her then — not the way people look when they’re trying to memorize a face, but the way they do when they realize they already have. The music wrapped around them, soft and golden, and the rest of the world dissolved.

Jack: “You think Shakespeare meant love is nourished by music — that we need it to feel? Or that it’s the same thing?”

Jeeny: “I think he meant that music is the language love speaks before words ruin it.”

Jack: (quietly) “You make everything sound like poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because I think everything already is — if you listen right.”

Host: The band shifted to a slower tempo, the kind of rhythm that fills the gaps between heartbeats. A couple began to dance near the stage, bodies swaying in easy time, as if the night itself had written them into its score.

Jack: (watching them) “You ever notice that when two people dance, there’s a moment where they stop thinking? The rhythm takes over. They stop leading or following — they just move.”

Jeeny: “That’s what love should be. Not a plan. A rhythm.”

Jack: “And when the rhythm changes?”

Jeeny: “You listen. You adapt. You don’t force it. That’s how the song keeps going.”

Host: The lights dimmed even further, the last of the candles flickering low. The night had grown heavier, more intimate, like an instrument being tuned one final time before silence.

Jeeny: “You know, it’s funny — people think love fades when the song ends. But maybe the real love is what remains after the last note.”

Jack: (smiling) “The echo.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then play on.”

Host: Her eyes softened, her lips curving into a smile that was both an answer and an invitation. The piano began again — a gentle refrain, uncertain but hopeful. Jeeny hummed along, barely audible, her voice blending with the music as if it had always belonged there.

Jack didn’t look away this time.

The camera would have pulled back, the two of them framed by candlelight and sound — a moment suspended between melody and memory.

The pianist’s hands moved gracefully, coaxing truth from the keys, and the night seemed to exhale — finally, tenderly.

And as the scene faded to black, Shakespeare’s immortal words lingered, tender and infinite:

That if music be the food of love,
then to play is to live,
to listen is to understand,
and to love
is simply
to keep the song alive.