I'm not concerned that my stuff isn't extreme. I don't want to be

Host: The rain had stopped just before dusk, leaving the city slick and reflective — every light doubled in the puddles, every shadow alive with memory. A faint steam rose from the wet pavement, curling like smoke beneath the golden street lamps. Inside a dim music bar, the low hum of a jazz record spun through the air, broken occasionally by the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices.

Jack sat at the bar, his collar damp, a thin smile playing at the edge of his lips as he stirred the ice in his glass. Jeeny sat beside him, elbows on the counter, a small folded napkin before her with a few lines of lyrics she had scribbled earlier — half dream, half confession.

Host: The neon sign above the counter flickered — “Hope’s Corner” — as if blinking in rhythm with their hearts.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, tracing a circle on the napkin, “I read something today by Robert Palmer. He said, ‘I’m not concerned that my stuff isn’t extreme… I just want to be hopeful and positive. If that includes sentimentality, I can afford it.’”

Jack: He chuckled, his voice low, dry. “Hopeful. Positive. Sounds like a luxury these days.”

Jeeny: “A luxury?”

Jack: “Yeah. In a world that feeds on outrage, irony, and fear — you think hope sells? Look around, Jeeny. The audience doesn’t want soft edges. They want sharpness, shock, extremes. The only thing sentimentality earns you anymore is ridicule.”

Host: The bartender slid another glass their way. The liquid caught the light — deep amber, warm like memory. Jeeny watched the swirl, as though it held something sacred.

Jeeny: “Maybe ridicule is a fair price. If you’re genuine, you don’t need to be fashionable. Isn’t that what Palmer meant? That he’d rather make something kind than cruel — even if it seems naïve?”

Jack: “Naïve gets crushed, Jeeny. It’s not the kind that survives.”

Jeeny: “But it’s the kind that heals.”

Host: Jack turned, his grey eyes catching the dim bar light, sharp yet hollow — like the gleam of a blade dulled by too much use.

Jack: “You think kindness can heal what the world’s become? You sound like you live in a postcard. The world doesn’t clap for gentle things anymore. Look at art — movies, music, politics — everything’s louder, darker, angrier. That’s what people pay to feel. Raw truth, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: “Raw truth without hope is just despair wearing honesty’s mask.”

Jack: “Or it’s the only kind of truth worth trusting.”

Host: The music shifted — a saxophone’s wail, tender yet lonely, like a voice calling into fog. Jeeny’s eyes softened, reflecting the tune as if her thoughts were keeping time.

Jeeny: “I think of the 1940s, you know? When the world was bleeding from war, and yet people turned on radios to hear songs like ‘We’ll Meet Again.’ That was sentimentality too. But it wasn’t weak — it kept people alive.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it kept them distracted — too busy humming to notice the world burning.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel way to see comfort, Jack. Why must everything good be manipulation to you?”

Jack: “Because comfort blinds. Look at history — whenever things got too comfortable, people stopped questioning, stopped fighting. And that’s when corruption creeps in, quiet and patient. Sentimentality is the soft curtain tyrants hide behind.”

Jeeny: “No, cynicism is. You call it realism, but it’s just fear wearing sophistication.”

Host: The tension between them was like the heat from the bar’s old radiator — invisible but pulsing. Jack set down his glass, the sound echoing faintly like a note cut short.

Jack: “You think optimism makes you noble? It just makes you blind. The artist who tries to be positive in a burning world isn’t a saint — he’s a fool with good lighting.”

Jeeny: “And the cynic who refuses to hope is just another coward who gave up pretending to care.”

Host: The rain began again outside, soft, persistent, tapping against the window like a drummer keeping time with their words.

Jeeny: “You say you hate sentimentality, but I think what you really hate is remembering that you once believed in it.”

Jack: “Belief got me nowhere. I believed in fairness — lost my job to a system that rewards greed. I believed in love — watched it dissolve under the weight of small lies. I believed in meaning — until I saw people trade theirs for likes and algorithms.”

Jeeny: “So you punish hope for what disappointment did?”

Host: The bar had grown quieter, the air thick with the kind of silence that comes when honesty finally walks into the room.

Jack: “Hope hurts. It keeps you expecting things that never come. That’s why people prefer darkness — it never betrays you.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Darkness doesn’t betray — it just consumes. You think that’s safer? You think numbness is strength?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled slightly, not with weakness, but with something more dangerous — compassion.

Jeeny: “Robert Palmer was right. The artist’s job isn’t to impress with extremity — it’s to remind people they can still feel without being destroyed. To show that gentleness still has power, that positivity isn’t naive — it’s defiant.”

Jack: “Defiant? Against what?”

Jeeny: “Against despair. Against the ease of giving up. You call sentimentality weak, but it takes courage to stay soft in a world built to harden you.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaling through his nose, his jaw clenched as if holding back a tide. The neon sign flickered again — HOPE’S CORNER — the word “Hope” pulsing faintly, stuttering like a heartbeat unsure if it should continue.

Jack: “You really think softness can stand up to all this noise?”

Jeeny: “It already does. Every parent still tucking in a child despite the chaos. Every musician still writing about love instead of headlines. Every stranger who smiles on a train when they could just as easily look away. Those small things — they’re hope’s armor.”

Host: The jazz record hissed softly between tracks — the sound of vinyl’s imperfection, the sound of something real.

Jack: “You’re quoting poetry again.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m describing survival.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked. The reflection of the neon light danced in her eyes, soft yet unwavering. For a moment, his cynicism faltered.

Jack: “You think art should comfort, then?”

Jeeny: “Not always. Sometimes it should challenge. But never abandon compassion. If you take away hope, you’re not telling the truth — you’re just spreading your pain.”

Host: Jack turned his glass in his hands, watching the ice melt — a slow, translucent surrender.

Jack: “Maybe Palmer could afford sentimentality because he lived in a gentler time.”

Jeeny: “No time is gentle, Jack. People are. And we forget that too easily.”

Host: The bartender turned down the lights, leaving only the low glow of the bar’s lamps and the faint blue of the street. The rain had turned steady now, blurring the view outside — the city smeared into watercolor.

Jeeny: “Maybe what he meant,” she said quietly, “was that being positive isn’t about denial. It’s about defiance. Saying, ‘I choose to believe in beauty — even here.’”

Jack: “And what if beauty doesn’t choose you back?”

Jeeny: “Then love it anyway. That’s what makes it real.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting. He looked at Jeeny, and something unspoken — regret, understanding, or maybe even gratitude — flickered across his face.

Jack: “You know… you might be right. Maybe the world doesn’t need another scream. Maybe it needs a whisper that refuses to fade.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The music shifted again — soft piano now, tender and human. Jeeny smiled, and Jack returned it — small, tired, but genuine.

Outside, the rain eased into mist, and the reflections on the street began to settle, the lights finding their shape again.

Host: And as the last notes of the piano faded, the bar’s neon sign glowed steady — “Hope’s Corner” — no longer flickering, but shining quietly, like sentiment itself: unfashionable, unashamed, and undefeated.