Love, like a chicken salad or restaurant hash, must be taken with

Host: The afternoon sun spilled through the café’s tall windows, turning the air into warm gold dust that danced above the clinking of cups and soft hum of conversation. The place was half-empty — just a few lingering souls savoring their coffee and their loneliness. The smell of roasted beans and buttered bread hung in the still air, and somewhere in the corner, a record player whispered an old jazz tune, its crackles like memories caught in the music.

Host: Jack sat at the window, his sleeves rolled up, a cup of black coffee cooling in front of him. His eyes, sharp and grey, stared absently at the street beyond — where people hurried through life with the same blank devotion as ants to their duties. Jeeny arrived quietly, a soft smile on her lips and a half-eaten croissant in hand. She slid into the seat opposite him, her hair falling loose around her face, catching the light.

Jeeny: (smiling) “You look like a man calculating the meaning of existence over cold coffee.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure out why everyone treats love like a science experiment these days.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “You mean like Helen Rowland said — ‘Love, like a chicken salad or restaurant hash, must be taken with blind faith or it loses its flavor.’”

Host: Jack’s eyebrow twitched, and his lips curved into something that might’ve been a smile — or a warning.

Jack: “Exactly. Blind faith, huh? That’s the problem. Nobody questions what they’re swallowing until it poisons them.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe that’s the beauty of it. You can’t taste anything new if you’re afraid of what’s in it.”

Host: The waiter passed by, setting down a new pot of coffee, the steam rising between them like a fragile veil.

Jack: “You’re telling me you’d take something — someone — without knowing what’s in them? You don’t taste-test before you commit?”

Jeeny: “You can’t test love, Jack. That’s the point. It’s not a recipe. It’s a risk. You trust that it’s worth the bite, even if it burns.”

Host: A small laugh escaped her, but there was something sincere beneath it — something that shimmered like a confession hiding behind humor.

Jack: “That’s a poetic way to describe foolishness.”

Jeeny: “And your way — turning everything into logic — that’s how you starve. You ever notice how people who demand guarantees never end up tasting anything real? They pick through the salad, looking for what’s safe, and miss the flavor entirely.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped against his cup. He leaned back, the sunlight cutting across his face.

Jack: “That’s rich. You’re comparing faith in love to eating hash in some restaurant kitchen. I prefer to know who’s cooking before I take a bite.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And yet you’re here, in this café, drinking coffee made by a stranger you’ll never meet. You already live on blind faith, Jack — you just don’t call it that.”

Host: Her words lingered, floating in the still air between them. A busker’s guitar played faintly outside, a tune full of soft ache.

Jack: “That’s different. This is just caffeine and routine. Love… that’s another battlefield entirely. People use the word to justify anything — obsession, control, even violence. Tell me again about blind faith after you’ve seen someone drown in it.”

Jeeny: “And yet people still dive. That’s what fascinates me. Despite every heartbreak, every betrayal, we keep doing it. Doesn’t that prove something? That there’s something in love worth the risk — something no rational mind can kill?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The light shifted, catching the edge of his profile — sharp, carved by fatigue and thought.

Jack: “Or maybe it proves we’re slow learners. You ever wonder why so many great minds ended up alone? Maybe they finally realized love isn’t divine — it’s a chemical illusion wrapped in poetry.”

Jeeny: “And yet every poem that survived history was written about love. Isn’t it funny how reason fades, but emotion endures? If love were just a chemical trick, Jack, why would it leave such a mark?”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered toward her then — a brief, human crack in the armor. He didn’t speak right away. The café hummed softly, a world breathing around their private war.

Jack: “Because pain leaves scars too. Doesn’t make it sacred.”

Jeeny: “No, but it makes it real.”

Host: Silence fell — deep and steady, filled with the small noises of forks on plates, of the world quietly spinning without their consent. Jeeny looked at Jack, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: “You’re afraid of faith, Jack. Not because it blinds you — but because it demands surrender. Love, faith, belief… they all require you to trust something you can’t measure. That terrifies you.”

Jack: (bitter smile) “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve seen too many people worship love the way addicts worship their poison. I’d rather stay sober.”

Jeeny: “Sober minds rarely dream, Jack. And without dreams, what flavor does life have?”

Host: She leaned forward slightly, her hands wrapping around her cup as if it were something sacred. Her eyes gleamed — not with naivety, but with the quiet conviction of someone who’s chosen to believe despite knowing better.

Jack: “So you’d rather believe in something that could destroy you?”

Jeeny: “If it’s real, yes. Because that’s the only kind of love worth having — the kind that asks for your faith, not your caution.”

Host: The sun had begun to sink lower now, washing the café in amber light. Dust motes drifted like floating seconds, like the remnants of every choice left unspoken.

Jack: “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe faith — in love, in life — is the last sacred act left to us. Everything else is logic, strategy, and fear.”

Host: The jazz record clicked softly as it reached its end — a soft, hollow sound that seemed to echo her words.

Jack: (after a pause) “You know… you might be right. Maybe love does lose its flavor when you overthink it. Maybe I’ve been chewing on reason so long I’ve forgotten how to taste.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Then stop chewing. Swallow. Trust the chef.”

Host: They both laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was human. The kind of laughter that breaks the surface after too long underwater.

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, the cynicism in his eyes dimming to something quieter, almost tender.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Let’s say love is a chicken salad — what if it’s gone bad?”

Jeeny: “Then you thank it for trying to feed you… and order dessert.”

Host: The café lights flickered on, bathing the room in warm amber. The world outside had turned to a wash of muted rain, gentle and rhythmic. They sat in silence — not as skeptic and believer, but as two souls acknowledging that maybe faith and flavor were born from the same hunger.

Host: The camera pulls back through the window, framing them as the rain blurs the glass. The last glimmer of sunlight fades behind the clouds, and the jazz begins again — a slow, soulful refrain echoing Helen Rowland’s laughter through time.

Host: And in that moment, the world feels simple again — love, like a salad, fragile, funny, fleeting — and somehow still the most delicious risk of all.