Let's just do what is right for the American people. And those

Host: The Capitol dome glowed faintly beneath the dusk sky, its marble face bathed in gold and amber light. The city below hummed — not with joy, not with sorrow, but with the slow, mechanical breathing of power. Through the arched windows of an old Georgetown café, two figures sat across from one another — their faces caught between light and shadow.

Jack’s suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up, a half-drunk espresso by his side. His eyes — steel-grey, alert, tired — scanned the evening paper without reading it. Across from him, Jeeny’s hands were folded around her tea cup, her brown eyes alive with something quiet but unyielding — a kind of faith that politics had long forgotten.

Outside, a flag fluttered against the deepening blue — the sound soft, like an old promise trying to remind someone it still existed.

Jeeny: “Nancy Pelosi once said, ‘Let’s just do what is right for the American people.’ You’d think that’s a simple thing to agree on, wouldn’t you?”

Jack: “Simple to say. Impossible to practice. ‘What’s right’ depends on which side of the aisle you’re sitting on.”

Host: The waitress passed by, her tray clinking with silverware. Somewhere in the back, a radio played a blues tune, slow and faded, like the sound of a nation remembering something it lost.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what she meant — that there has to be common ground. Not left, not right — just… right. For the people.”

Jack: “And who decides what that means, Jeeny? You? Me? Pelosi? Everyone claims to fight for the people — until the votes come in. Then it’s about leverage. About narrative. About who looks good on camera.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s stopped believing in good intentions.”

Jack: “No. I just stopped pretending they’re enough.”

Host: A flicker of lightning briefly illuminated the street outside — the sky heavy with rain, the air thick with anticipation.

Jeeny: “But you can’t build a democracy on cynicism. It’s supposed to be built on trust — not just in leaders, but in each other. If everyone keeps waiting for the other side to move first, nothing ever changes.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s because trust has become a luxury. Politics isn’t chess anymore, Jeeny. It’s trench warfare. Every inch of compromise feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the ones who built this country — Lincoln, Roosevelt, even Reagan and Tip O’Neill — they found ways to reach across that trench. They argued, yes, but they also listened. Do you know what Reagan said about O’Neill? ‘After 6 p.m., we’re friends.’ Can you imagine that happening now?”

Host: The rain began to fall, tapping softly against the glass, each drop catching the reflection of the Capitol lights — a thousand small truths shimmering for a moment before vanishing.

Jack: “That was another era. Back then, compromise didn’t mean weakness. Now it’s a campaign liability. If a senator reaches across the aisle, his own base calls him a traitor.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s the base that’s forgotten who the real enemy is. It’s not the other party, Jack. It’s the chaos that feeds on our division.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from an ache that came from believing in something most had stopped believing in. Jack looked at her, his jaw tightening, his eyes flicking toward the Capitol as if he could still see the ghost of its idealism.

Jack: “You think unity can fix that? We’re a country built on disagreement. That’s our strength — or at least it was. Common ground sounds nice, but it’s just another word for compromise. And compromise, in politics, means somebody loses.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It means everybody gives something — so that everyone gains something greater. Common ground isn’t about winning. It’s about surviving together.”

Host: The light above their table flickered, a pulse of amber across the surface of their drinks. Outside, the rain thickened, a steady curtain that blurred the world into a watercolor of motion and meaning.

Jack: “Surviving together? You’re talking poetry. The system’s broken — lobbyists, money, corporate hands in every law. You think a speech about unity will clean that?”

Jeeny: “No. But someone has to keep speaking it, or we’ll forget it ever mattered. Look at history — every movement started with words that sounded naïve. The Civil Rights Act? It began with an impossible belief — that hearts could change. And they did.”

Jack: “And yet here we are, decades later, still fighting over who gets to belong.”

Jeeny: “Then the work isn’t done. But that doesn’t mean the belief was wrong.”

Host: Jack’s hand ran through his hair, the gesture heavy with the weight of quiet disillusionment. The rain outside slowed, and the faint rumble of thunder rolled across the horizon like the echo of an unfinished argument.

Jack: “You really believe people can change?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this — elections, speeches, votes, laws — if not to make life a little fairer for someone other than ourselves?”

Jack: “Fairness. Another word that means different things to different people. For one, it’s justice. For another, it’s control. You can’t legislate morality, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can legislate compassion. You can make decisions that remind people they still matter. That’s what Pelosi meant — that those in power owe the people not just policies, but humanity.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and deliberate. The rain had stopped entirely now. In its absence, the sound of the city returned — distant sirens, the rumble of tires, the heartbeat of a nation that never fully slept.

Jack: “You talk like a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But dreamers built every bridge this country stands on — literal and political. You don’t get to the moon without someone dreaming it first.”

Jack: “And you don’t stay there without engineers.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then maybe we need both — the dreamers and the engineers.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jack’s face, though his eyes still carried that quiet storm. He reached for his cup, the coffee now cold, and stared into it as though it were a mirror.

Jack: “So you think common ground still exists?”

Jeeny: “Not as a place. As a choice. Every time we listen instead of shouting, every time we act for someone we don’t know — that’s where it begins.”

Host: The lights of the Capitol shimmered through the window, steady, almost sacred. For a moment, both of them looked — not at each other, but toward that distant dome, that fragile symbol of shared responsibility.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what scares me most. That we all know what’s right — but it’s harder to do it than to argue about it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s where leadership begins. Doing what’s right, not what’s easy. Even when no one’s clapping.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of the table, his mind caught somewhere between realism and hope.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real test of power — not in how much you win, but how much truth you can stand to lose for the greater good.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because power without compassion isn’t strength. It’s just control. The right thing isn’t partisan — it’s human.”

Host: The clock on the café wall struck nine. The rain clouds began to part, revealing the faintest silver edge of the moon over the Capitol dome.

They sat in silence — two souls from opposite worlds, divided by philosophy but united, if only for a moment, by a single truth: that the responsibility of those who lead is not to win, but to serve.

The camera slowly pulled back, capturing the soft glow of the flag, the distant hum of cars, the trembling light on their faces — weary, but alive with purpose.

Host: And as the city breathed again, you could almost hear it — the quiet, stubborn heartbeat of democracy, still searching for its common ground.