Men are fair, and they have learned not to personalize anger -

Host: The office lights hummed faintly, casting long shadows across the polished conference table. The city outside was a blur of neon and rain, each droplet streaking down the window like a sentence that never quite found its end. It was late — the kind of late that empties buildings and fills hearts with restless reflection.

Jack sat at the far end of the table, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, his jaw tight from too many arguments and too few resolutions. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, the faint glow of her laptop softening her face. Her eyes, deep and tired, watched him with both challenge and care.

Between them, silence — the fragile kind that follows a war of words.

Then Jeeny broke it.

Jeeny: “You really don’t feel anything after a fight, do you, Jack? You walk away like it never happened.”

Jack: “That’s not true. I just don’t carry it home. It’s done when it’s done. That’s how I was taught.”

Host: The clock ticked. A draft swept through the open window, stirring the scattered papers on the table — remnants of their earlier debate on leadership, ethics, and everything in between.

Jeeny: “You sound like Warren Farrell — ‘men are fair, and they have learned not to personalize anger.’ I read that once. But don’t you think there’s something… hollow about that?”

Jack: “Hollow? No. It’s healthy. You can disagree with someone — even tear apart their ideas — without tearing apart the person. That’s fairness, Jeeny. That’s maturity.”

Jeeny: “Fairness, maybe. But where’s the empathy in that? Isn’t it strange to fight with someone, feel all that heat, and then just… reset, like it never touched you?”

Jack: “Not strange. Necessary. If you let emotion take over every disagreement, you’d never work, never lead, never last. Look at politics, or even the courtroom — emotion clouds judgment.”

Jeeny: “And yet without emotion, judgment becomes cold. Detached. You can’t solve human problems without being human, Jack.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming softly on the glass, a steady, indifferent rhythm that seemed to underscore their tension. Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, his voice low but charged.

Jack: “You think I’m detached. But you’re missing the point — anger is just energy. What matters is where you put it. Men learn to channel it, not to personalize it. That’s discipline.”

Jeeny: “Discipline, or denial?”

Jack: “Discipline. The world doesn’t owe you space to cry every time you clash with it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the world would be better if more people did. If they stopped pretending anger isn’t personal. Because it is — every argument comes from who we are, what we’ve lived. You can’t strip that away and still call it truth.”

Host: A brief silence fell. The air conditioner hummed. Outside, a car horn wailed, faded, and died. Jack looked away, eyes tracing the lines of the rain-smeared city.

Jack: “So what do you want? That we start crying in board meetings? Hugging after every disagreement? That’s not life, Jeeny. That’s sentiment.”

Jeeny: “No. I want honesty. To say ‘I’m angry’ and mean it — not bury it under polite detachment. Women are often told anger makes them unprofessional, ungrateful, unstable. So they swallow it. But men — they’re praised for mastering it, for turning it into strategy. You see the double standard?”

Jack: “Maybe. But maybe that’s just biology. Men are trained to separate feeling from function. To fight hard, then shake hands.”

Jeeny: “And women are trained to absorb the hit and still smile. Tell me, Jack — which of those seems fair?”

Host: Her words landed like the sound of glass cracking — not shattering yet, but close. Jack’s eyes narrowed, the defense rising instinctively, yet faltering halfway.

Jack: “You think I don’t feel it? You think I don’t care when I argue with someone I respect? I just learned it’s better to burn clean — to let the fire pass through, not linger.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just it — you think emotion is residue, something to wash off. What if it’s the very thing that makes conflict meaningful?”

Host: Jeeny stood and walked toward the window, watching the city lights shimmer through the rain. Her reflection in the glass seemed layered — present and distant all at once.

Jeeny: “You ever read about the samurai, Jack? They fought fiercely but always bowed afterward — not because they didn’t feel anger, but because they respected it. They treated rage like a storm that had passed, not something to ignore.”

Jack: “And what do you think I do?”

Jeeny: “You act like the storm never came.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened; his hand moved to the window ledge. He looked at her reflection instead of her face.

Jack: “I don’t ignore it. I just don’t make it personal. That’s how you survive in a world built on competition. If you take every blow to heart, you’ll never stand.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why so many men are standing — but so few are connected.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it cut deeper. Jack exhaled slowly, the fight in him shifting shape — no longer anger, but something closer to doubt.

Jack: “You’re saying detachment kills connection.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying it prevents healing. Anger that’s not felt becomes resentment. You might think you’ve let go, but really, you’ve just buried it deeper.”

Jack: “You might be right. But isn’t there power in control?”

Jeeny: “Yes — but there’s wisdom in vulnerability. Anger shared is not always destruction; sometimes it’s understanding. That’s what Farrell missed. The ability to fight without hatred isn’t just male — it’s human. But we’ve gendered it so long, we’ve forgotten that balance.”

Host: A slow thunder rolled in the distance. The rain eased, leaving streaks of silver light on the glass. Jack turned to face her now — really face her — his expression weary but open.

Jack: “You ever notice how kids fight? They scream, hit, cry — and five minutes later they’re playing again. Maybe that’s what he meant — the fight doesn’t have to ruin the friendship.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but children also apologize. They don’t pretend it never hurt. They acknowledge it.”

Jack: “So maybe the secret isn’t to avoid personal anger — but to personalize it right. To make it honest, not corrosive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To see each other after the argument — not as enemies, not as opponents — but as mirrors reflecting different truths.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The office lights dimmed automatically, leaving them in a wash of blue from the city below. The moment had softened; the air felt lighter, freer.

Jack: “You know, I always thought keeping anger impersonal made me fair. But maybe fairness isn’t about distance — maybe it’s about respect.”

Jeeny: “And respect doesn’t end when the argument does. It’s what makes you come back — to talk again, to keep trying.”

Host: A smile crept across Jack’s face, the first in hours. He reached for his jacket, slipping it on, as Jeeny closed her laptop. The rain had stopped, and somewhere outside, the sound of laughter floated up from the street — raw, real, alive.

Jack: “You’re still wrong about a few things.”

Jeeny: “Of course I am. So are you. But we’ll argue again tomorrow, won’t we?”

Jack: “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Host: They walked side by side toward the elevator, their footsteps echoing softly. The doors opened, reflecting their silhouettes — two different fires learning to burn without consuming each other.

As the elevator descended, the city lights shimmered like embers, and the faint hum of the world below whispered the quiet truth of their night:

Anger, when faced with respect, is not division — it’s dialogue.

And beneath the noise, the human bond remained — unbroken, unaltered, quietly alive.