It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is

Host: The night had settled like a slow exhale over the city, its streets glazed in a thin sheen of rain. Neon signs bled color into the puddles — red, violet, gold — each reflection trembling like an uncertain truth.

Inside a small bar tucked between two bookshops, the air was dim, filled with the low hum of jazz and the occasional clinking of glasses.

At the far end of the counter, Jack sat, his grey eyes distant, his face half-lit by the amber glow of a hanging lamp. His hands rested on a glass of whiskey that had been melting into itself for an hour.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink absently, the ice clinking softly like a broken rhythm. Her black hair fell in waves over her shoulders, her brown eyes steady and alive — the only bright thing in that pool of half-shadows.

Host: The bartender passed them by quietly, sensing something unsaid thickening between them — a conversation not about the world, but about the illusions that rule it.

Jeeny: “You ever read Tolstoy?” she asked suddenly, her voice like a soft blade. “He once said, ‘It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Ah, Tolstoy. The eternal realist. He saw through everything — even the shine on virtue.”

Jeeny: “You agree with him, then?”

Jack: “Of course I do. Look around. We live in a world that worships appearance. The beautiful are believed before they even speak. The charming are forgiven before they even apologize. People don’t want truth — they want something pleasant to look at while they lie to themselves.”

Host: His voice carried a quiet bitterness, one that came from experience, not theory. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him as if she were reading a confession written in his posture.

Jeeny: “So you think beauty is a lie?”

Jack: “I think beauty is a distraction. The most successful lie there is.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been burned by it.”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “Haven’t we all?”

Host: A pause. The saxophone in the background sighed through a melancholic melody, filling the silence with something that felt like memory.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that unfair to beauty? To call it delusion? Beauty can inspire people, change them. Think about art, music, architecture — even nature. We stand before a sunset or a painting and feel humbled. That’s not delusion, Jack. That’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t mean truth. A sunset doesn’t make the world good. It just makes it bearable. Beauty soothes us while the rot continues underneath.”

Host: He leaned forward, his eyes catching the light in fleeting flashes — like steel struck by thought.

Jack: “It’s the same everywhere. The handsome politician gets trust before he earns it. The pretty influencer sells empathy with filters. The killer with the angelic face gets sympathy in court. The ugly truth? We don’t want goodness. We want it packaged nicely.”

Jeeny: “But maybe beauty and goodness are connected because we want them to be. Maybe that’s not delusion, but hope.”

Jack: “Hope is just a socially acceptable form of denial.”

Host: Her eyes flashed then — not in anger, but in that fierce light she always carried when something sacred to her was being dissected.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Hope is what keeps people kind when there’s no reason to be. You think people mistake beauty for goodness because they’re stupid. I think they do it because they need to believe goodness still looks beautiful.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but dangerous. You know what that thinking leads to? People trusting smiles over substance. They’ll follow the pretty tyrant, worship the cruel hero, marry the charming monster.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even monsters crave beauty — because somewhere deep inside, they remember what goodness feels like.”

Host: The bar went quieter. Outside, the rain began again, each drop tapping against the glass like the ticking of an invisible clock.

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending the illusion.”

Jeeny: “I’m defending the yearning. Beauty isn’t the lie — our interpretation is. Beauty isn’t goodness, but it can point us toward it. Like light on water. You can’t drink it, but it tells you the river’s there.”

Host: For a moment, Jack said nothing. He turned his glass slowly, watching the amber swirl in lazy spirals.

Jack: “You ever see how people treat someone plain, Jeeny? Watch a room when a beautiful person walks in — everyone softens, laughs easier, forgives faster. That’s not yearning. That’s bias.”

Jeeny: “And you think cynicism is any better? You’ve turned distrust into a philosophy. But cynicism blinds you just as much as beauty blinds others.”

Jack: (leaning back) “At least I see the world for what it is.”

Jeeny: “No, you see the world for what hurt you made it.”

Host: The words hit like thunder — quiet, but final. Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked away, out the window, where a couple passed under one umbrella, laughing in the rain.

Jack: “You think I’m wrong?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re wounded. And you call your wound wisdom.”

Host: Silence again. Only the faint hiss of rain and the soft echo of jazz filling the hollow between them.

Jeeny: “Do you know why Tolstoy called it a delusion?” she continued softly. “Because he saw how people excused cruelty as long as it smiled. But I don’t think his point was to hate beauty — I think it was to remind us to look deeper.”

Jack: “Look deeper? Into what?”

Jeeny: “Into the kind of beauty that doesn’t fade — kindness, integrity, compassion. The beauty of someone who stays when everyone else leaves. The beauty that doesn’t care to be seen.”

Host: The rain stopped, replaced by a hush so complete it seemed the world had paused to listen. Jack’s expression softened, the sharpness of his features melting into something uncertain — something almost tender.

Jack: “You really believe that kind of beauty still exists?”

Jeeny: “I do. I see it every day — in the woman who feeds strays outside this bar, in the man who helps the old lady cross the street, in the child who shares their lunch. That’s beauty, Jack. Quiet, unadvertised, stubborn beauty.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a kind of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. In a world obsessed with faces, true beauty is the unseen act.”

Host: He smiled then — a tired, genuine smile — the kind that comes not from joy, but from surrender to something undeniable.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Tolstoy wasn’t condemning beauty… just warning us not to stop there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The delusion isn’t that beauty exists — it’s that we think it’s enough.”

Host: The bartender switched off the hanging lights one by one, leaving the bar in the soft glow of candles. Jack and Jeeny sat in the fading light, their faces now indistinguishable from the shadows, their words lingering like smoke.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe goodness is the beauty we earn — after we stop chasing the kind we’re born with.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the only kind worth trusting.”

Host: Outside, the rain began again, but this time it was gentle — more a murmur than a storm. The city shimmered beneath it, not flawless, not pure, but alive.

The lamp above their table flickered once and went out, leaving them in half-darkness.

Host: In the reflection of the window, two faces blurred into one — beauty and goodness, illusion and truth — no longer opposing, but quietly coexisting.

And beyond the glass, the world kept breathing — still deluded, still dreaming, still reaching for something better than itself.