If you believe in romance, and if you believe in marriage, you

Host: The bar was almost empty, its lights dimmed to a tired amber, as if even the neon had grown weary of pretending to be cheerful. Outside, the rain slanted through the night, thin and endless, cutting silver lines across the windows. The city hummed softly — a lonely hum, the kind that fills the gaps between memories.

Host: Jack sat at the far end of the bar, his coat draped over the stool beside him, his drink untouched. The TV above the counter murmured some late-night talk show, the kind that made noise but not meaning. Across from him sat Jeeny — her hands wrapped around a glass of red wine, her eyes lit with that familiar, stubborn warmth that refused to fade, even when everything else did.

Host: The bartender polished glasses in the background, half-listening, half-daydreaming. The air smelled of citrus, smoke, and the faint ache of stories unfinished.

Jeeny: “Alex Borstein said something once,” she began, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass. “‘If you believe in romance, and if you believe in marriage, you also have to believe in divorce… You can’t just go to weddings and children’s birthday parties. You’ve got to witness it all.’”

Jack: “Sounds like someone who’s been burned,” he said, his voice low, rough like gravel.

Jeeny: “Or someone who finally understood what love actually is.”

Jack: “Love?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “You mean that thing everyone idealizes until it breaks them in half?”

Host: She looked at him — long, searchingly — the way someone looks at a window they can’t decide to open or close.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s still standing in the ashes.”

Jack: “Maybe I am,” he said. “But tell me this — why does everyone talk about love like it’s supposed to be eternal? If you believe in love, why not believe in endings too? Every romance carries its own funeral from the start.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass. A couple at a nearby table laughed — a brief, bright sound that vanished almost instantly.

Jeeny: “Because endings don’t mean failures, Jack. Divorce, heartbreak, loss — they’re not the opposite of love. They’re the proof of it.”

Jack: “Proof?” He leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Of what? That we’re all emotional masochists?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “Proof that we dared. That we entered something knowing it could destroy us. That’s what romance really is — not the flowers, not the vows — but the courage to begin, knowing full well it might end.”

Host: The light flickered above them, a tiny pulse of electricity that caught in Jeeny’s eyes like a reflection of belief itself.

Jack: “You make it sound noble,” he said. “But it’s just pain dressed up as poetry. People swear love is eternal until reality gets in the way — bills, fatigue, silence at breakfast. Then they start blaming each other for becoming human.”

Jeeny: “And yet they still try again. That’s the miracle, Jack. Not the staying, but the starting.”

Host: The bartender turned down the TV, and the room grew quieter, leaving only the rain and their voices. The bar clock ticked softly, marking time like a heart that refused to stop beating.

Jeeny: “Look at it this way,” she continued. “You can’t celebrate a wedding without accepting that, someday, there might be loss. You can’t love the child at the birthday party without knowing one day they’ll walk away from you. You can’t believe in beginnings without accepting endings. That’s life — it’s not sentimental, it’s symmetrical.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we should all walk into love expecting divorce?”

Jeeny: “Not expecting. Allowing. Knowing it’s possible — and loving anyway.”

Host: He ran a hand through his hair, sighed. His eyes — gray, tired, but still bright in places — met hers.

Jack: “You know, you sound like my ex-wife when she used to paint. She’d say art was about contrast — shadow makes the light visible. I told her life would be easier if she could just turn on the damn lamp.”

Jeeny: “And what did she say?”

Jack: “That I didn’t understand beauty unless it hurt.”

Host: A small silence followed — not cold, not hostile, just the kind of silence that carries too many ghosts.

Jeeny: “She was right,” she said gently. “Beauty does hurt. It has to.”

Jack: “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s supposed to make you feel real.”

Host: The rain softened, sliding down the window in long, deliberate streaks. The neon sign outside — a flickering pink heart advertising some long-forgotten diner — blinked in and out like a heartbeat fading.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been left,” he said, his tone sharper now. “Like you’ve never had the world pulled out from under you.”

Jeeny: “I have,” she said simply. “But I didn’t stop believing in the world because it changed shape. I didn’t stop believing in love because it hurt. Why should I? That’s like refusing to watch the night because it isn’t day.”

Host: He turned toward her, his expression hardening, then softening again — the way light breaks on water before vanishing.

Jack: “You always find poetry in the wreckage.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the truth hides,” she replied. “In the broken things. In the failed marriages, the awkward goodbyes, the quiet nights alone. If you only want the parties, you’ll never understand the people.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s honest.”

Host: The bartender poured another drink, the sound of liquid filling glass like a small, domestic symphony. Somewhere outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle. The world was still moving, even here, inside this little pocket of reflection.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why people avoid shows like Getting On,” he said after a pause. “They don’t want to see decay. They don’t want to watch what happens after the curtain drops. They want illusion — not aftermath.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “But you can’t claim to love life if you only love the easy parts. The weddings, the birthdays, the smiles for the camera. Life demands you watch the funerals too.”

Jack: “And the divorces?”

Jeeny: “Especially the divorces.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they lingered — like a song that refuses to leave your mind. Jack stared at his glass, the amber liquid catching the last of the bar’s light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe love isn’t a contract. Maybe it’s a risk — and the only way to honor it is by accepting the loss it carries.”

Jeeny: “That’s all Borstein meant,” she said quietly. “You can’t claim to believe in the beauty of the world unless you’re willing to face its darkness. Otherwise, you’re just visiting.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his expression unreadable, but something inside him had shifted — a tension unwound, a truth reluctantly accepted. He lifted his glass.

Jack: “To beginnings,” he said.

Jeeny: “And to endings,” she replied, clinking her glass softly against his.

Host: Outside, the rain finally stopped. The streetlights glistened against the wet pavement, their reflections stretching long and uncertain. The city, tired but alive, exhaled.

Host: And as they sat there, two souls who had both loved and lost, the world felt momentarily balanced — caught between laughter and grief, faith and surrender — a quiet reminder that to truly live, one must witness it all: the wedding, the funeral, and everything trembling in between.