If you get down and quarell everyday, you're saying prayers to

Host: The sunset bled gold through the dusty windows of a small record shop tucked in the heart of the old city. The air carried the smell of vinyl, smoke, and memory, that peculiar mix of nostalgia and rebellion that clings to places built by music.
A turntable spun slowly in the corner, the faint crackle of Bob Marley’s voice drifting through the dim room — warm, alive, eternal:

“If you get down and quarrel every day, you’re saying prayers to the devil, I say.”

The line hummed in the space between them — Jack and Jeeny — two souls who hadn’t spoken for days until now. The silence between them was almost rhythmic, like a skipped heartbeat.

Jack leaned against the counter, arms folded, his jaw tight. Jeeny sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, surrounded by scattered records and a small ashtray, her fingers tracing the sleeve of a worn album cover.

The music filled the air with something older than both of them — something true.

Jeeny: (softly) He wasn’t talking about the devil, you know. Not the one in stories. He meant the devil in us — the one that feeds on pride.

Jack: (grinning faintly) So now pride’s evil? I thought it was survival.

Jeeny: (looks up) It’s survival until it starts killing peace.

Jack: (shrugs) Peace never paid the bills.

Jeeny: (quietly) No, but neither did anger.

Host: The record crackled, the music skipping a line, as if pausing to let their words settle. The sunlight dimmed, turning red, then orange, before fading into the blue of evening.

Jack: (after a pause) You think Marley actually believed that? That every argument was some kind of prayer to the devil?

Jeeny: (nods) I think he knew the devil isn’t a myth. It’s energy. It’s what happens when we turn love into competition.

Jack: (gruffly) You make it sound like we’re sinners every time we raise our voices.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe we are. Not in religion, but in spirit. Every quarrel chips away at the bridge we built between us.

Jack: (quietly) Sometimes bridges burn themselves.

Jeeny: (firmly) No. We light the match.

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not from anger, but from something deeper — fatigue, maybe, or the ache of too many arguments that ended in silence instead of solutions. Jack’s hands clenched, his breath shallow, as if fighting back a truth that had been waiting for air.

Jack: (low) You make it sound easy — like people can just stop fighting.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s not easy. It’s practice.

Jack: (bitterly) Practice for what?

Jeeny: (measured) For peace.

Jack: (half-smiles) Peace. You talk about it like it’s a job.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) It is. A full-time one. The kind that doesn’t pay in cash — only in quiet.

Jack: (laughs dryly) I wouldn’t know what to do with quiet.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s because you’ve forgotten it’s not emptiness. It’s healing.

Host: The music shifted, the soft rhythm of Marley’s guitar weaving through the air like breath — unhurried, honest, timeless. Outside, the city lights flickered on one by one, mirroring the faint glimmers of understanding that began to appear between them.

Jack: (quietly) You ever think anger’s necessary? Like… if you don’t fight back, people walk all over you.

Jeeny: (nodding) Sometimes anger’s a message. But if you keep shouting the same message every day, no one hears it anymore.

Jack: (sighs) So we just smile and take it?

Jeeny: (firmly) No. We fight smart. Not loud.

Jack: (shaking his head) You always had a way of making restraint sound like rebellion.

Jeeny: (smiling) Maybe because it is. Anyone can throw a punch. But it takes discipline to keep your hands open.

Jack: (quietly) And what if the world only respects fists?

Jeeny: (softly) Then you show it what grace looks like. That’s how Marley fought — with rhythm, not rage.

Host: The needle on the record scratched briefly, then settled back into groove. The sound was imperfect, human — the kind of imperfection that made the song more alive.

Jeeny: (looking up) You know what he meant by “saying prayers to the devil”?

Jack: (shakes his head) Enlighten me.

Jeeny: (slowly) He meant energy. Focus. Every time we fight, we feed what we fear. Every argument is a little ritual for chaos.

Jack: (murmuring) So you’re saying every time we argued, we built a church for the wrong god.

Jeeny: (softly) Something like that. And we kept worshipping at the altar of our own egos.

Jack: (half-smiling) Damn. That’s poetic — and painful.

Jeeny: (smiling back) Truth usually is.

Host: The record turned slower now, the last song on the side coming to an end. Jack’s gaze fell on the turntable — the circle spinning endlessly, the needle tracing its familiar path.

He realized — maybe for the first time — that anger worked the same way.

Jack: (quietly) You ever notice how fights repeat themselves? Same words, different days. Like… reruns of a bad show we can’t stop watching.

Jeeny: (nodding) That’s because we never change the script. We argue to win, not to understand.

Jack: (sighs) And in the end, no one wins.

Jeeny: (softly) Except the devil we were praying to.

Jack: (looking at her) You really believe that, huh? That every fight feeds something dark?

Jeeny: (after a pause) I think every fight starves something light.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You and your riddles.

Jeeny: (gently) They’re not riddles, Jack. They’re reminders.

Host: The rain began again, soft and persistent, the kind that washes the world rather than floods it. The light from the window glowed warmer now, reflecting on Jeeny’s face — calm, steady, illuminated.

Jack: (after a while) You ever think it’s too late to stop fighting? That maybe peace is a door that only opens backward?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. It’s not too late. Peace is always waiting. It’s just patient.

Jack: (softly) You think I can find it?

Jeeny: (smiles) You don’t find peace, Jack. You stop blocking it.

Jack: (quietly) That sounds harder than fighting.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) It is. But it’s the only fight worth winning.

Host: The record clicked, the music fading into the soft hiss of the turntable. Jack reached over, lifted the arm, and set it gently back down. The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was alive, pulsing with everything that hadn’t needed words.

Jeeny: (whispers) You feel that?

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. Feels like quiet.

Jeeny: (smiles) No. That’s peace. It just sounds like quiet.

Jack: (leans back) Guess it’s been a while.

Jeeny: (gently) Then don’t let it be a stranger.

Host: Jack’s eyes softened as he looked at her, really looked — past the words, past the walls. There was no devil here. No prayers for chaos. Just two people who’d finally stopped fighting long enough to listen.

Outside, the rain lightened, and through the half-open door drifted the faint sound of laughter from the street — real, human, fleeting.

Host (closing):
The turntable spun in silence, the record long over, yet still turning — a reminder that motion doesn’t always mean noise.

And above it all, Bob Marley’s voice lingered, carried in the memory of the melody:

“If you get down and quarrel every day, you’re saying prayers to the devil, I say.”

Because every argument we feed becomes its own religion —
and every moment of restraint becomes a quiet act of faith.

And as Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the gentle rain,
the world seemed softer, lighter —
as if peace, patient and smiling,
had been waiting for them to finish their last prayer to the wrong god.