My favorite time of day is to get up and eat leftovers from

Host: The morning hadn’t quite decided to be awake yet. The city was still half-asleep — streets glistening from the night’s rain, shop shutters yawning open, pigeons negotiating crumbs like old politicians. The light through the apartment window was pale and kind, the kind of light that forgives clutter.

Jack sat at the small kitchen table, barefoot, wearing yesterday’s shirt. A half-empty wine glass, a cold plate of noodles, and the smell of chili still hung in the air. The silence was heavy — not sad, just honest.

Jeeny appeared in the doorway, her hair still tousled from sleep, holding a mug of black coffee like a small anchor. She watched him for a moment before speaking — her voice warm, amused, and still soft with dreams.

Jeeny: (smiling) “David Byrne once said, ‘My favorite time of day is to get up and eat leftovers from dinner, especially spicy food.’”

Jack: (chewing thoughtfully) “Then David Byrne is the philosopher of the refrigerator. A man after my own stomach.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s trivial. It’s not about the food — it’s about the ritual.”

Jack: “Oh please. You think cold curry is a metaphor for enlightenment?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe. Or for simplicity. Think about it — leftovers are the poetry of what’s already lived. A second taste of yesterday.”

Host: The morning sun crept higher, sliding through the blinds in thin golden stripes that cut across the cluttered table — bowls, a notebook, two forks, a wrinkled newspaper. The steam from Jeeny’s mug curled upward like a small ghost of warmth.

Jack: “You always make things sound romantic. Sometimes food is just food.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it’s memory you can eat. Don’t you ever find comfort in repetition? In the taste of something familiar?”

Jack: “I find comfort in hot meals, not relics.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Relics remind you you’ve lived.”

Host: She took a sip of her coffee, eyes half-closed, the bitterness grounding her. Jack leaned back, his chair creaking, eyes drifting toward the window where the city stretched, half-born from its own noise.

Jack: “You know, there’s something about Byrne’s quote that’s… unapologetic. He’s not pretending to be profound. He’s just saying, I like what I like. That kind of honesty’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s authenticity without performance. The kind of joy that doesn’t ask to be justified.”

Jack: “But we live in an age where everything needs a caption — even breakfast.”

Jeeny: “That’s why I like it. He reminds us that pleasure doesn’t need an audience.”

Host: The sound of traffic drifted up from below — horns, footsteps, a vendor shouting about fresh bread. Life, indifferent and rhythmic, carried on.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people chase new things constantly? New clothes, new cities, new experiences. But leftover food — that’s the rebellion of contentment. It says, I don’t need new. I already have enough.”

Jack: “You’re turning curry into a philosophy.”

Jeeny: (playfully) “Someone has to.”

Jack: “Alright, philosopher of leftovers — what does that make me?”

Jeeny: “A cynic with good taste.”

Jack: “Flattering.”

Host: A bird landed on the sill, cocked its head, then flew off again — as if the apartment’s quiet contemplation had bored it. Jack picked up a piece of cold chicken and held it up like a prop.

Jack: “Maybe Byrne was onto something. Eating leftovers isn’t about taste — it’s about rhythm. The world’s obsessed with forward motion, but maybe the secret is looping back.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what morning is — a loop. Yesterday’s dreams reheated in today’s light.”

Jack: “And spicy food helps you remember them.”

Jeeny: “You laugh, but there’s something primal in it. Reclaiming the night’s warmth before facing the day’s coldness. It’s like grounding yourself in your own history.”

Host: The light shifted warmer now — soft amber spilling over their faces, turning ordinary things sacred. Two people, one meal, a universe of small meanings.

Jack: “You ever think simplicity scares people? Like, if something doesn’t feel dramatic, it must be meaningless.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve mistaken chaos for depth. But sometimes, the truest moments are quiet ones. Eating leftovers. Sharing silence. Breathing the same air without needing to fill it.”

Jack: “So David Byrne’s not just talking about breakfast — he’s talking about peace.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The peace of being unremarkably human.”

Host: The clock ticked once — soft, deliberate. Somewhere, the world was waking faster than they were.

Jack: “You know, I used to think happiness had to be earned. Now I think it just needs to be noticed.”

Jeeny: “That’s the secret. The world keeps telling us to chase meaning. But meaning lives in the leftovers.”

Jack: “Cold food and warm mornings.”

Jeeny: “And the courage to find poetry in both.”

Host: She smiled, setting her mug down. Jack took another bite, then pushed the plate toward her. Their fingers brushed, ordinary and electric.

Outside, the sunlight finally broke through the clouds, flooding the kitchen. It caught on the spoon, the coffee, the faint laughter that rose like steam.

And in that golden, unassuming moment, David Byrne’s words became a small kind of gospel —

That joy need not be loud to be real.
That contentment hides in the corners of routine.
That life’s flavor, like spice, lingers best when you let it rest —
and taste it again, softer, slower,
when the world isn’t demanding newness.

Host: The morning settled around them — humble, alive, complete.

Jack leaned back with a quiet sigh.
Jeeny sipped the last of her coffee.

And for once, neither spoke —
because there was nothing left to explain.