I'm a man of faith. I only fear God, and my wife - sometimes.

Host: The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where secrets aged better than whiskey. Outside, rain streaked down the windows, and the streetlights smeared into golden rivers across the glass. A blues guitar played lazily through an old speaker, its notes slow, tired, but honest.

Jack sat at the counter, his sleeves rolled up, a faint scar visible on his wrist — a mark of a man who’d seen too many small battles. His grey eyes carried that distant, unspoken kind of pain, the one that never quite heals but somehow keeps you moving.

Jeeny sat next to him, turning a glass of bourbon in her hands, the amber liquid catching light like molten truth. Her hair was still wet from the rain, sticking to her cheeks, and her eyes burned with quiet amusement as she leaned toward him.

Jeeny: “Lech Walesa once said, ‘I’m a man of faith. I only fear God, and my wife — sometimes.’”

Host: The words drifted through the bar like smoke — half serious, half laughter, all truth. Jack cracked a small grin, the kind that looked like it hurt to make.

Jack: “That’s the most honest prayer I’ve ever heard.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s true, isn’t it? The only power that can humble a man more than God is love — especially when it’s standing right in front of him, holding his heart hostage.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Or his wallet.”

Jeeny: “You’re deflecting again.”

Jack: “No, I’m surviving. There’s a difference.”

Host: The bartender poured another round, the sound of liquor hitting glass breaking the lull. The neon sign outside flickered, bathing them both in a ghostly red glow.

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in fear, do you, Jack?”

Jack: “Of course I do. I just choose better disguises for it.”

Jeeny: “Like sarcasm?”

Jack: “Like logic. Fear hides best behind reason.”

Jeeny: “And yet Walesa wasn’t joking when he said it. A man of faith — yet humble enough to admit that love can shake him more than the heavens.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe that’s because marriage is the only mirror that never lies. You stand before someone who knows all your flaws — and still has the power to forgive or destroy you with silence.”

Host: The rain picked up again, tapping against the windowpane in sync with the low hum of the guitar. Jeeny took a small sip, her voice soft but edged with conviction.

Jeeny: “Faith and love are cousins, Jack. Both demand surrender. You can’t half-believe in God, and you can’t half-love your wife.”

Jack: “Surrender sounds nice in poetry. In real life, it feels like drowning.”

Jeeny: “Only if you fight the current.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So what — I’m supposed to let it sweep me away?”

Jeeny: “If it’s love, yes. That’s what faith is. Letting yourself be carried, trusting that you won’t drown.”

Host: Jack turned his gaze to the mirror behind the bar, watching their reflections swim in the low light — two blurred outlines of people talking about belief while trying not to show their own fractures.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. That’s why it’s sacred.”

Host: A faint silence followed. Outside, a man laughed loudly as he stumbled past, the sound hollow in the rain-soaked street.

Jack: “You ever notice that most men of faith spend their lives bargaining with God? Promising devotion in exchange for mercy?”

Jeeny: “And most women spend their lives forgiving men for failing to keep those promises.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the flicker of a smile crossing his lips — admiration mixed with guilt.

Jack: “You’ve got a sharp tongue for a believer.”

Jeeny: “Faith without fire isn’t faith. It’s just compliance.”

Jack: “And love without fear?”

Jeeny: “Isn’t love. It’s convenience.”

Host: The rain eased, replaced by a light mist clinging to the windows. The song changed on the jukebox — Ain’t No Sunshine — slow, soulful, almost too fitting.

Jack: “You really think fear belongs in love?”

Jeeny: “Not fear of harm — fear of losing what matters. That kind of fear keeps you honest. It’s not weakness; it’s reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence…” (he repeats the word slowly, tasting it) “You make love sound like religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every marriage is a small church. You go there to worship, to confess, to forgive. Sometimes, to rebuild your faith.”

Host: The firelight from a corner candle trembled, casting small shadows that danced across their faces. Jack’s voice dropped to a murmur, stripped of its sarcasm.

Jack: “I was married once.”

Jeeny: (softly) “I know.”

Jack: “I thought faith meant being right all the time. Turns out, it meant staying even when I was wrong. I learned that too late.”

Jeeny: “She must’ve been someone.”

Jack: “She was everything — until I started treating her like nothing.”

Host: The air hung heavy. The bartender looked away, as if the weight of truth were too intimate to witness.

Jeeny: “You still carry her, don’t you?”

Jack: “Every day. Like a prayer I stopped believing in but can’t stop saying.”

Jeeny: “That’s what love does. It doesn’t die. It just changes form.”

Jack: “And fear?”

Jeeny: “Fear keeps the form sacred.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glistened faintly — not with tears, but with memory. The kind that doesn’t hurt anymore, just hums quietly inside you.

Jack: “Maybe Walesa was right. Maybe a man who fears God learns humility. But a man who fears his wife learns love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because one teaches you reverence for what’s above — and the other for what’s beside you.”

Host: The bartender turned the volume down on the jukebox. The room grew still, save for the whisper of the storm outside and the low clink of glass.

Jack: “You think faith can survive without love?”

Jeeny: “Never. They’re made of the same thing — trust in the unseen.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’m still a believer.”

Jeeny: “You always were. You just lost your church.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly. The storm outside had softened into drizzle, like the world exhaling. He reached for his coat, stood, and threw a few bills onto the counter.

Jeeny watched him — not with pity, but with quiet understanding.

Jack: “You know, if I ever get married again, I’ll remember what you said.”

Jeeny: “Which part?”

Jack: “That love’s a church. And faith is staying when the sermon’s hard to hear.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Just remember to fear your wife a little too. Keeps the sermons shorter.”

Host: Jack laughed — a real laugh this time, deep and unguarded. It echoed softly through the room, filling the empty space with warmth that hadn’t been there before.

He turned to go, then paused at the door.

Jack: “You know what scares me most, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That someday I might find someone worth fearing again.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s when you’ll finally stop running.”

Host: Jack looked back one last time. The light caught the edges of his face, a mixture of faith, regret, and the faintest hint of hope. He nodded — to her, to himself, to the invisible weight that had followed him for years.

He stepped into the rain.

And as the door swung shut behind him, the bar returned to its gentle rhythm — the hum of the blues, the scent of old bourbon, and the faint echo of two believers talking about love and fear in a world that never stopped testing both.

Because in the end, as Walesa understood, a man of faith doesn’t just fear God.
He fears the woman who teaches him how to love Him better.