It's nice to let some anger out sometimes.

Host: The night had settled heavy over the city, pressing its weight against the glass of an old bar by the riverfront. Neon signs blinked like half-hearted souls, spilling red and blue over the wet pavement. The rain had only just stopped, but the air still smelled of lightning and loneliness. Inside, a jukebox murmured an old jazz tune, while two figures sat by the window—Jack and Jeeny—both lost in the kind of silence that follows a storm.

Jack leaned back, his hands clenched around a half-empty glass of whiskey. His eyes, grey and sharp, stared through the reflection of his own anger in the window. Jeeny sat across, her shoulders small, but her gaze steady—a quiet fire burning behind her brown eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Bianca Andreescu once said, ‘It’s nice to let some anger out sometimes.’”
(She smiled, faintly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.) “I think she was right.”

Jack: (with a bitter laugh) “Nice? No. Necessary, maybe. But nice? That’s a poetic word for an ugly emotion.”
He tilted the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Anger’s a tool, Jeeny. It builds or it destroys, depending on how you swing it. But you don’t ‘let it out’—you control it.”

Host: The ceiling fan whirred, cutting through the thick air. A single droplet of rain slid down the window, leaving a faint trail—like the remnant of a tear no one wanted to own.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what she meant, Jack? Letting it out is control. It’s when you bury it, when you pretend it’s not there, that it rots you from the inside. That’s what breaks people.”

Jack: “You talk about anger like it’s therapy. It’s not. It’s violence waiting for a target. Every revolution, every war, every betrayal started with someone saying they needed to ‘let some anger out.’”
(He looked at her sharply.) “You think that ever ends well?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it does.”
(She leaned forward, her voice soft but steady.) “Do you remember the protests in 1989? The students in Beijing, or the marches in Berlin? That was anger too—but it wasn’t hatred. It was truth trying to breathe. Anger, when it’s honest, can be the beginning of change.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, its headlights slicing through the mist. The reflections danced briefly across their faces, then faded, leaving only the low light of the bar.

Jack: “Change, sure. But look what it cost them. Blood, loss, silence. You think anger brings freedom—it only trades one kind of pain for another.”

Jeeny: “And what do you trade it for, Jack? Bottling it up? Pretending you’re above it?”
(She raised her eyebrows, her tone sharpening.) “That’s not wisdom—that’s fear. You think you’re in control, but maybe you’re just too afraid to feel.”

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Jack’s jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck twitching. His fingers tapped against the table, a rhythm of restraint.

Jack: “Fear keeps people alive. You let anger out, and you can’t predict where it goes. It’s like setting a fire in a forest—you might warm one night, but you’ll burn down the valley.”

Jeeny: “But what if the valley’s already burning, Jack? What if silence is the fire? What if all your calm is just another way of hiding?”
(She paused, her eyes softening.) “I’ve seen you angry. Not yelling, not hitting. Just—quietly angry. Like a storm that refuses to rain. That’s worse.”

Host: Jack looked away. The barlight caught the side of his face, revealing a brief flash of something raw—not rage, but hurt. His voice dropped, almost a whisper.

Jack: “I learned what anger does when you let it out. My old man used to throw chairs when he got angry. Said it was ‘good to let it out.’ He let it out on walls, on doors, on people. On me. Tell me, Jeeny, where’s the good in that?”

Jeeny: (her voice breaking slightly) “That’s not letting it out—that’s losing control. There’s a difference, Jack. I’m talking about honesty, not destruction. The courage to say, ‘I’m angry, and it hurts.’ Not to hit, not to break—but to admit.”

Host: The music in the background shifted, the saxophone crying a low, aching note that filled the space between them. Jeeny’s hands were trembling slightly as she held her cup, and Jack’s eyes flickered—a rare sign of vulnerability.

Jack: “You think words fix everything. They don’t. Some things can’t be talked away.”

Jeeny: “No, but they can be shared. And when you share your anger, it’s not a weapon anymore—it’s a wound that starts to heal.”
(She smiled, weakly.) “You know, Andreescu was a tennis player. Her anger wasn’t about destruction—it was about power. She turned it into focus. Into victory.”

Host: The rain began again, lightly this time, tapping the windows like a quiet apology. The lights of the city blurred, their edges softened by the droplets.

Jack: “You talk about turning it into focus like it’s easy. Most people can’t. Most people drown in it before they even realize they’re angry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe what they need isn’t to suppress it—but to learn how to swim. To understand their anger before it understands them.”
(She looked out at the rain, her reflection faint beside his.) “Because anger is energy. It doesn’t vanish. It only changes shape. You can either use it—or it’ll use you.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain grew louder, a steady rhythm against the glass, like a heartbeat neither could ignore. Jack’s expression softened. The lines on his face seemed to melt, as though the weight of the conversation had pulled something honest from him.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe… anger’s not the problem. Maybe it’s what we do after. How long we let it stay.”
(He sighed, his voice low, almost regretful.) “I’ve spent years holding mine like a secret. Thinking it made me strong. Maybe it just made me tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. Anger’s not meant to be kept. It’s meant to pass—like the rain. You just have to let it fall.”

Host: Jeeny’s words landed softly, like ashes after a long fire. Jack nodded, slowly, the hardness in his eyes finally giving way. The bar seemed to breathe again, its shadows lighter, its music gentler.

Jack: “So, letting some anger out… it’s not weakness?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s human.”
(She smiled, a faint, almost forgiving smile.) “It’s nice, sometimes, to remember that.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased into a soft mist, washing the streets clean. The neon lights reflected in the puddles, twisting like memories finally unburdened. Jack raised his glass, and Jeeny clinked hers against it, the sound small but true—like a truce between fire and water.

In the quiet, the city breathed, and so did they.