Mr. Speaker, I rise today in support of the definition of a

Host: The chamber of the night was still, its air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Outside, the city was quiet, save for the distant murmur of traffic, the soft whisper of rain against the pavement. Inside a dimly lit bar, two figures sat in the far corner, where the light was low and the voices of strangers faded into background music.

Jack sat with a glass of whiskey, his fingers tracing the rim in slow, deliberate circles. His face — sharp, pale, and cut from stone — was half illumined by the glow of a flickering lamp.

Jeeny sat across from him, her hair pulled back loosely, her eyes dark and unblinking, focused on him with the kind of tenderness that burns as much as it comforts.

Between them lay a folded newspaper, its headline bold, its print still fresh with controversy. In the center of the page, the quote:

“Mr. Speaker, I rise today in support of the definition of a marriage as between one man and one woman.” — Randy Neugebauer

The words hung like smoke between them — not rising, not fading, only lingering, thick with history and pain.

Jack: (quietly) You can almost hear the applause in the room, can’t you? The sound of certainty, of people who think they’re saving something.

Jeeny: (softly) Or protecting something, in their eyes.

Jack: (scoffs) Protecting? From what — love?

Host: His voice cracked like flint, sharp and bitter, cutting through the dim air. The rain outside picked up, beating against the windows as if the sky itself were arguing in tears.

Jeeny: (gently) Sometimes people fear what they don’t understand. They call it tradition so they don’t have to call it fear.

Jack: (bitterly) Fear wrapped in faith is still fear. And when it’s written into law, it becomes control.

Host: The bar was almost empty now. The bartender polished a single glass, pretending not to listen. The clock ticked above them, measuring not just time, but the slow erosion of patience.

Jeeny: (sighing) You think you can just change hearts with laws? That’s not how it works, Jack. Laws don’t change beliefs — people do.

Jack: (leaning forward) Then why do people like Neugebauer stand in rooms of power, speaking of love like it’s a crime?

Jeeny: (measured) Because they think they’re defending a world they were taught to believe in.

Jack: (with heat) And in the name of that belief, they tell two souls who find light in each other that their light isn’t valid.

Jeeny: (quietly) It’s not right. But it’s human. People cling to definitions because they’re afraid of change — afraid that if love can be anything, then maybe everything they know is fragile.

Host: The rain turned into a steady curtain, blurring the streetlights outside into soft spheres of gold. Inside, the light from the lamp trembled across their faces — two sides of the same truth, reflected in opposition.

Jack: (his voice low) You always find a way to forgive them.

Jeeny: (softly) Not forgive. Understand. If we don’t understand them, we become like them — full of certainty, and empty of grace.

Host: Her words fell between them like rain, quiet, steady, soothing the edges of his anger without diminishing its fire.

Jack: (after a pause) You think grace will stop someone from being denied a life, a marriage, a name?

Jeeny: (meeting his gaze) No. But anger alone won’t build a world where they’re free either. Love has to do the building — the real kind. The kind that’s brave enough to include what once was excluded.

Host: A silence bloomed between them, thick with unspoken truths. The light flickered, the whiskey in Jack’s glass catching it like liquid fire.

Jack: (murmuring) You sound like you still have hope for them — for the ones who’d rather legislate love out of existence.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) I have hope for the ones who will come after them — the ones who’ll finally see that love is the only thing that ever made the world better.

Host: The clock struck midnight. The rain softened again, the streetlights outside reflected in the puddles like tiny, shimmering wounds.

Jack: (leaning back, voice quiet but rough) I just can’t stand the way they make love sound like a threat. Like it’s something to be contained.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s what happens when people forget that love doesn’t belong to definitions — it belongs to hearts.

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes tired but alive, the edges of his anger beginning to soften into something deeper — grief, maybe, or recognition.

Jack: (quietly) You really think it’ll change? That one day they’ll stop standing up in rooms like that, saying who can or can’t love?

Jeeny: (nodding) It will. Every generation that speaks from love makes it harder for hate to find a microphone.

Jack: (half-smiling) You make it sound like a slow revolution.

Jeeny: (smiling softly back) That’s exactly what it is. Love is always the slowest revolution — but it’s the only one that never fails.

Host: The bar had grown quiet now, save for the faint hum of music from the jukebox, an old song about longing and forgiveness. The candle between them had almost burned out, its flame a single glow, trembling but unbroken.

Jack: (raising his glass) To the day we don’t have to debate love.

Jeeny: (raising hers) To the day we finally understand it.

Host: Their glasses clinked, a small, fragile sound swallowed by the silence that followed. The rain had stopped. Through the window, the sky was beginning to clear, revealing a faint silver line on the horizon — the promise of morning.

Host: And as they sat there, beneath the dying light, it was as if the world itself was turning, slowly, painfully, but inevitably, toward something kinder.

For in every speech, in every law, and in every heart that tries to define what cannot be contained, there will always be those who rise, not in defense, but in reminder —

That love, in all its forms, needs no permission to be real.