In my experience, if you have to keep the lavatory door shut by

Host: The evening air hung heavy with dust and the faint echo of construction machines still rumbling in the distance. The city was half-built — cranes stretching toward a pale orange sky, scaffolds like ribcages of unfinished dreams.

A newly opened café stood amid the chaos, all concrete, glass, and angles — the kind of place that looked like it was designed more for photographs than for comfort. The chairs were elegant but stiff, the light cold and intentional, spilling from hidden strips that hummed faintly above.

Jack sat near the window, his long legs awkwardly folded, one knee pressed against a sharp table corner that seemed designed by someone who’d never actually sat at a table.

Jeeny arrived moments later, laughing under her breath as she wrestled with the door — it swung inward, then outward, then refused to stay either way.

Jeeny: “I swear, this place is trying to kill me. Even the door is confused about its purpose.”

Jack: “That’s how you know it’s modern.”

Host: Jack said it without looking up, his tone half amused, half bitter, eyes still on the architectural monstrosity around him.

Jeeny dropped her coat, sat, and leaned back in her metal chair, which groaned like it regretted being furniture.

Jeeny: “Nancy Banks Smith once said, ‘If you have to keep the lavatory door shut by extending your left leg, it’s modern architecture.’ She wasn’t wrong.”

Jack: “She was too kind. At least that lavatory had a door that closed. Try finding one that isn’t made of frosted glass these days.”

Host: A faint smile played on Jeeny’s lips. The light from the glass wall behind them painted their faces in thin geometric streaks, like a designer’s sketch that forgot the warmth of real skin.

Jeeny: “You really hate this kind of design, don’t you?”

Jack: “It’s not design I hate — it’s pretense. Everything’s about looking modern, not living well. A chair that’s uncomfortable, a window that doesn’t open, a bathroom you can’t use without an engineering degree — and we call it progress.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man at war with the century.”

Jack: “Maybe I am. We used to build cathedrals — now we build boxes and call them homes. All sharp edges, no soul.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re romanticizing the past. Cathedrals were built to glorify gods. These ‘boxes’ — they glorify survival.”

Jack: “Survival? Or style?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe modern design reflects the world we live in — restless, efficient, anxious to prove it still matters.”

Host: A waiter drifted by, silent and mechanical in motion, as if programmed into the geometry of the room. Their drinks arrived in minimalist cups — too hot to hold, too shallow to satisfy. Jack winced as he lifted his, the handle thin as a paperclip.

Jack: “There. Exhibit A. This cup — it looks like art and functions like punishment.”

Jeeny: “But it makes you think.”

Jack: “It makes me burn my fingers.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point — to make you feel. To remind you you’re part of something designed.”

Jack: “If I wanted to be reminded I was part of a design, I’d look at a blueprint, not a bathroom door that requires yoga to operate.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, the kind of laughter that softened the lines of frustration around Jack’s face. The sound of it echoed against the concrete walls, bringing a flicker of life into the sterile air.

Jeeny: “You know, I think architecture is like philosophy. It tells you what an age believes about itself.”

Jack: “Then this age believes in confusion and back pain.”

Jeeny: “Or adaptability.”

Jack: “Or alienation.”

Jeeny: “You see alienation, I see experimentation. It’s not supposed to feel familiar — it’s supposed to challenge how you exist in space.”

Jack: “So discomfort is the new enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Growth rarely happens in comfort.”

Host: A pause. Outside, the streetlights began to hum, their glow reflecting off the glass towers. The city’s skeleton of steel and light stretched into the dimming sky — a monument to human ambition and absurdity alike.

Jack tapped his fingers against the cold table.

Jack: “Do you remember that old café near the train station — the one with wooden chairs, crooked floors, the smell of cinnamon in the air?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do.”

Jack: “It wasn’t beautiful, but it was alive. People laughed there. You could feel time passing slowly.”

Jeeny: “And yet it’s gone now. Torn down for a high-rise. Maybe modern architecture isn’t trying to be alive — maybe it’s trying to survive time.”

Jack: “You can’t survive time by erasing what makes you human.”

Jeeny: “You can’t cling to nostalgia either, Jack. That old café — it was built in an age when people needed comfort. We live in an age that needs clarity. Clean lines, open spaces — they reflect our craving for control in a chaotic world.”

Jack: “But control kills warmth.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes warmth hides decay.”

Host: The conversation deepened — no longer about architecture, but everything beneath it. Their voices softened, the space between them tightening with the quiet rhythm of understanding.

Jack: “You really think the way we build things mirrors who we are?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. Our cities are mirrors. Look around — glass everywhere. We’ve made transparency our religion, even if it’s just illusion. We live to be seen, not to belong.”

Jack: “So we trade walls for windows, and call it progress.”

Jeeny: “Yes — because we fear what’s behind the walls.”

Jack: “And yet, we’re lonelier than ever.”

Jeeny: “Because we built light, but forgot warmth.”

Host: The air between them grew still. Jack’s eyes followed the lines of the ceiling — the exposed pipes, the polished steel beams — all deliberate, all impersonal.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Nancy Banks Smith meant, Jack. Not just the door or the leg or the absurdity — but the fact that architecture mirrors the absurd balance we live in. The modern mind trying to keep things from falling apart with one foot outstretched.”

Jack: “You mean — we’re all sitting on the toilet of modern civilization, holding the door shut with our leg?”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Exactly.”

Jack: “Well, then it’s fitting. We’ve designed a world that looks perfect in photos but requires constant strain to function.”

Jeeny: “And still — we stay. We adapt. We extend our legs, balance our cups, learn to breathe through the noise. That’s the brilliance and tragedy of it.”

Jack: “You always manage to find poetry in pain.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what keeps it from being just pain.”

Host: The light shifted again, sliding across their faces like slow-moving water. Jack’s expression softened, the lines of cynicism giving way to a faint smile.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe architecture is just another reflection of us — overdesigned, overreaching, half broken, and somehow still standing.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes beautiful, even in its awkwardness.”

Jack: “Like people.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the night deepened. The city glowed — a constellation of glass, steel, and human hope. Inside the café, the hum of machines softened, replaced by the quiet intimacy of shared understanding.

Jeeny rose, pulling her coat around her shoulders.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, maybe modern architecture isn’t about perfection. Maybe it’s about learning how to live gracefully inside imperfection.”

Jack: “By keeping the door shut with your leg.”

Jeeny: “By laughing while you do.”

Host: They stepped out into the night, the door swinging twice before finding its rest. Behind them, the café’s cold glow melted into the streetlight’s golden warmth — a strange, fleeting harmony.

And as they walked away, the truth lingered like a quiet afterthought in the city’s hum:
Modern architecture is the art of balancing function and failure — just as modern living is the art of balancing reason and grace.
We build, we stumble, we hold the door — and somehow, the world keeps standing.