Let your Discourse with Men of Business be Short and

Host: The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of an old study, cutting the air into golden shapes that hovered like dust frozen in prayer. The room was a cathedral of silence — shelves lined with ancient books, a single quill resting beside an ink bottle, and the faint scent of cedar and discipline lingering in the wood.

Outside, the city murmured — horns, footsteps, the muted thunder of commerce — a symphony of ambition George Washington himself would have found both familiar and foreign.

Inside, Jack sat at a wide oak desk, a stack of contracts before him. His grey eyes scanned the pages with weary sharpness, the kind of gaze that could slice truth from pretense. Jeeny, perched on the arm of a nearby leather chair, watched him with quiet amusement, a cup of tea in her hand, steam curling toward the light like thought made visible.

Jeeny: “George Washington once said, ‘Let your discourse with men of business be short and comprehensive.’”

Jack: half-smiles without looking up “Trust the general to turn conversation into combat strategy.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Maybe he just hated small talk.”

Jack: sets the paper down, leans back “No. He understood the currency of words. Every syllable costs something — time, attention, influence. The efficient learn to spend wisely.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound mercenary.”

Jack: “It’s not mercenary. It’s mastery. The longer you talk, the more leverage you lose.”

Jeeny: tilts her head “And the less you feel.”

Jack: glances at her “Feeling doesn’t belong at the negotiation table.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s left of humanity once we’ve monetized the soul?”

Jack: “Survival. That’s what Washington was teaching — command your words before they command you.”

Host: The clock on the mantle ticked with military precision. The light shifted, crawling slowly across the floorboards, touching Jack’s hands as though testing his resolve.

In the corner, the faint sound of pen scratching echoed — deliberate, efficient, eternal.

Jeeny: “You really believe brevity equals wisdom?”

Jack: “I believe clarity is compassion. You say what you mean; you free the listener from confusion.”

Jeeny: “But clarity can’t always carry depth. Some truths need room to breathe.”

Jack: “And in business, breath costs money.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “You sound like a man who’s forgotten that silence can also speak.”

Jack: leans forward “Silence doesn’t close deals, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but it opens understanding. Washington wasn’t telling us to be cold. He was telling us to be precise — to respect words by not wasting them.”

Jack: pauses, intrigued “You’re saying brevity isn’t cruelty. It’s respect.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s honesty dressed in restraint.”

Host: The sunlight dimmed behind a cloud, casting the room into a cooler shade. The air shifted — dense now with the weight of history, of centuries watching through the pages stacked between them.

Jack: “You know, I think the modern world’s allergic to brevity. Everyone wants to sound profound instead of being understood.”

Jeeny: “Because verbosity feels safer. It hides insecurity under elegance.”

Jack: smirking “So what you’re saying is — most people talk to avoid being seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The longer you speak, the less you reveal. The fewer words you use, the closer you come to truth.”

Jack: “And truth terrifies people.”

Jeeny: “Always.”

Host: The wind rattled the windowpanes softly, carrying faint city sounds through the glass — the heartbeat of commerce pulsing just beyond the calm of the room. Jack rose, pacing slowly, the floor creaking beneath his boots.

Jack: “Washington’s quote — it’s not just about business, is it? It’s about power.”

Jeeny: “Power and integrity. A man who can speak briefly must know himself deeply.”

Jack: “And the one who speaks endlessly?”

Jeeny: gently “Still searching.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Then half the world’s in the middle of a monologue.”

Jeeny: chuckling “And the other half’s pretending to listen.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, sincerely — the sound small against the vastness of the room, but filled with life. The laughter faded into a silence that wasn’t empty, but sharpened, focused — the way silence feels before truth decides to speak.

Jack: “You think brevity is a lost art, then?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a forgotten courtesy. Words were once sacred — not tools of persuasion, but expressions of integrity.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now they’re currency — traded for attention, spent for validation.”

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also reversible. All it takes is choosing silence over noise. Meaning over volume.”

Jack: “So — Washington’s command wasn’t to be cold. It was to be clean.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Pure in intention. Disciplined in speech. Because every word builds or breaks trust.”

Jack: after a pause “And in business, trust is the only thing worth more than gold.”

Host: The fireplace hissed softly, releasing a faint aroma of burnt wood and memory. The light had shifted again — dusk now, tender and blue, the kind of hour where even silence feels intelligent.

Jeeny placed her teacup down and looked toward the window. The city beyond it glowed like a constellation of restless ambition — each light a word, each office a sentence being spoken somewhere without listening.

Jeeny: “You know, Washington led with silence more than command. He didn’t fill space — he defined it. That’s why men followed him.”

Jack: quietly “Because he spoke like a compass, not a storm.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. His brevity wasn’t distance — it was dignity.”

Jack: “A rare thing now.”

Jeeny: “That’s why it matters.”

Host: The clock struck six. A thin beam of last sunlight caught the edge of the ink bottle, gleaming briefly before disappearing.

Jack closed the folder before him, sealing the last of the day’s labor. He turned toward Jeeny, his expression softer, more deliberate.

Jack: “You know, I think I’ve been mistaking eloquence for power.”

Jeeny: “Most people do.”

Jack: “And I’ve forgotten that silence can persuade better than argument.”

Jeeny: nodding “Because silence doesn’t demand. It invites.”

Jack: smiles faintly “You’d have made a good statesman.”

Jeeny: grinning “I’d rather be a good listener.”

Host: The room quieted completely now — just the faint crackle of the dying fire, the whisper of paper settling. Jack stood at the window beside Jeeny, both gazing out at the dimming city.

The air felt cleaner, the noise of thought itself subdued.

And in that stillness, the old general’s wisdom seemed to echo through the centuries — not as command, but as invitation:

Speak less. Mean more.

Let your words be the architecture of trust,
not the debris of noise.

Let your discourse be short — not from impatience,
but from precision.

And let it be comprehensive —
not from pride,
but from purpose.

Host: The last of the light faded, leaving the room in peaceful shadow.
Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny smiled softly.

No more words were needed.

And for once, that silence said everything.