It's not a very high failure rate if you choose people that you

Host: The night was a velvet kind of quiet, the kind that hums with the faint echo of streetlights and forgotten music. A soft rain had just ended, leaving the pavement slick and shimmering under the weak glow of the city’s lamps.

Inside a small record store, tucked between two forgotten alleys, the air was thick with nostalgia — vinyl sleeves, the smell of cardboard and coffee, and the low crackle of a turntable spinning something old, something smooth.

Jack leaned against a rack of albums, flipping through covers absently. Across from him, Jeeny stood near the counter, head tilted, eyes half closed, listening. The song that played was a soft croon — Bryan Ferry, “Slave to Love.”

Then came his voice in an old interview, playing faintly through the store speakers:
"It’s not a very high failure rate if you choose people that you really like the sound of."

The sentence drifted through the static and silence like an old secret finally being remembered.

Jeeny: “That’s such a strange thing to say. But I think I get it.”

Jack: “Yeah? What do you think he meant?”

Jeeny: “That if you surround yourself with people whose voices you love — not what they say, but how they sound when they exist — you’re less likely to regret it.”

Jack: “So it’s about tone, not truth?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s about harmony. About how some people just… fit into your life like music does — you don’t have to understand it. You just feel it.”

Host: The record hissed softly, the needle tracing its grooves with gentle insistence. Outside, the rain started again — thin, rhythmic, like a quiet applause for what was being said inside.

Jack: “That’s poetic. But I think he was just talking about musicians.”

Jeeny: “Maybe on the surface. But Bryan Ferry never just talked about music. He lived it. You can tell by the way he talks about people — like they’re instruments in his orchestra.”

Jack: “That sounds dangerous. Treating people like instruments means you stop hearing them as themselves.”

Jeeny: “Not if you really listen.”

Host: Jack looked up, the light from the neon sign outside catching the sharp angles of his face. He had that same guarded calm, like a man who’d built a fortress around his thoughts and called it realism.

Jack: “You make listening sound romantic. But people lie. Their tone can be beautiful while their words rot.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still listen to love songs.”

Jack: “Because they end when the record does.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe that’s the difference — music doesn’t pretend to last forever. People do.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped her lips — the kind that carried warmth but hid sorrow underneath.

Jack: “You ever think that’s why we fall for the wrong people? Because we fall for how they sound, not who they are?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But isn’t that the start of everything good? The sound of something that moves you before you can explain why?”

Jack: “And then what? When the song ends? When you finally hear the discord?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn. You listen better next time. You get closer to harmony.”

Host: The record reached its chorus. Ferry’s voice, smooth and imperfect, filled the air — something between longing and control. Jack closed his eyes, as if trying to find the rhythm in his own contradictions.

Jeeny: “You know what I think that quote really means?”

Jack: “You’ve got theories for everything. Go on.”

Jeeny: “It means that connection isn’t luck. It’s taste. The more you know yourself, the better you choose who resonates with you. That’s why the failure rate drops — not because people get better, but because you do.”

Jack: “So it’s about refinement? Curation?”

Jeeny: “No. About honesty. The kind that comes with time. You stop chasing people who just sound loud — and start choosing the ones who sound true.”

Host: Her voice was steady now, calm but fierce. Jack watched her, the glow from the record player spinning faint light across her face like a slow heartbeat.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s already learned the hard way.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have.”

Jack: “Who was he?”

Jeeny: “He was a man who said everything right, in a voice I couldn’t stop listening to. And I mistook rhythm for meaning.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I listen for quiet. If someone’s silence doesn’t hurt, that’s when I know it’s real.”

Host: The needle lifted from the record — a soft click, then stillness. The room exhaled. For a long moment, there was nothing but the faint drip of rain outside.

Jack: “You ever think silence is overrated?”

Jeeny: “Only by people afraid of hearing themselves.”

Jack: “You think I’m one of them?”

Jeeny: “I think you hide behind logic because you’re afraid of music.”

Jack: “Music doesn’t lie, Jeeny. People do.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Music lies beautifully. It tells you pain is art, that heartbreak is poetry. But people — when they lie — they do it because they’re scared of being unloved. There’s a difference.”

Host: The words landed heavy, soft, and inevitable — like truth settling on the floor. Jack’s fingers brushed over the vinyl sleeve in front of him — Avalon — as if the weight of it carried something ancient and fragile.

Jack: “So you think the solution is to just… choose better people?”

Jeeny: “Not better. Just truer. The ones whose sound matches their soul.”

Jack: “And if you never find them?”

Jeeny: “Then make peace with your own voice first. No one else’s will ever sound right until you do.”

Host: The rain eased into a mist, tapping the window in gentle rhythm. The store was nearly dark now, the lights dimmed to a hum, the air thick with the weight of conversation and unsung melody.

Jack: “You ever notice how people talk about love like it’s a playlist — skip, replay, delete?”

Jeeny: “Maybe because that’s what love really is. A collection of moments that don’t always flow, but somehow make sense when you look back.”

Jack: “So what happens when the record skips?”

Jeeny: “Then you lift the needle, take a breath, and start again. That’s not failure. That’s rhythm.”

Host: Jack smiled, a rare, unguarded one — small but genuine. It softened him, like warmth finally finding its way into a cold room.

Jack: “You know… I think I finally get Ferry’s point. It’s not about avoiding failure. It’s about listening better. About choosing the songs — and people — that make you want to play them again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “And if the music stops?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it was only meant to teach you how to hear.”

Host: The turntable spun one last time, the faint hum filling the quiet like a heartbeat beneath stillness.

Jack walked to the player, lifted the arm, and set a new record down — something slow, soulful, uncertain.

Jeeny watched, her eyes soft in the dim light, her lips curling into a half-smile that carried both memory and promise.

As the first note played, Jack said softly — almost to himself:

Jack: “It’s not a high failure rate… if you choose the ones who sound like home.”

Host: And as the music rose, warm and low, the city outside hummed in time —
two voices finding the same key,
the night itself swaying to the rhythm
of what it means
to finally listen.