My second husband believed I had such a fickle attitude to

Host: The evening had a peculiar glow — the kind that only exists between stormlight and sunset, where the sky is bruised with violet and gold, and every reflection seems to question itself. The café was nearly empty, save for the low hum of a broken ceiling fan that turned with a lazy, uneven rhythm.

A radio played faintly in the background — an old countdown show, the kind that used to announce the week’s biggest hits. Its cheerful tone felt ironic against the weight in the room.

Jack sat near the window, a coffee cup untouched before him, eyes gray, fixed on the rain-streaked street outside. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her movements slow, deliberate, her gaze thoughtful.

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Julie Burchill once said, ‘My second husband believed I had such a fickle attitude to friendship that each Friday he would update the list of my “Top Ten” friends in the manner of a Top Of The Pops chart countdown.’”

Jack: A dry chuckle escaped him. “That’s the most brutally honest thing I’ve heard all week.”

Jeeny: “You mean cynical.”

Jack: “No, I mean honest. People change their friends as easily as playlists now. Loyalty’s a vinyl record in a streaming age.”

Host: The light from the streetlamp flickered through the window, painting Jack’s face in alternating bars of shadow and gold. His expression was calm, but beneath it ran the faint pulse of something tired, something wounded.

Jeeny: “You always say that — as if affection is just a phase. Maybe her husband was right about the ‘chart.’ But I think it says more about how we measure friendship than how she felt it.”

Jack: “Oh, come on. Don’t romanticize it. We treat friendship like stock — we invest while it pays off and pull out when it dips. Emotional capitalism, that’s all it is.”

Jeeny: “That’s not friendship, Jack. That’s fear — fear of losing control, of needing someone too much.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s realism. People grow, priorities shift. Expecting permanence is setting yourself up for disappointment.”

Host: The radio host’s voice drifted faintly from the speaker: “And now, climbing up to number three, it’s ‘You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ by The Righteous Brothers...’”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of them. Jeeny smiled ruefully, the kind of smile born from recognition of a truth too human to hate.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think maybe loyalty isn’t about permanence — it’s about presence? Being there when you can, not forever, but honestly.”

Jack: “You’re redefining loyalty to make it easier to lose.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m redefining it to make it real. People drift, Jack. That’s not betrayal — it’s gravity. Friendship isn’t a contract; it’s a current.”

Jack: “And yet everyone wants to know where they stand — ranked, validated, secure. Maybe Burchill’s husband was just saying what we all think and never admit: that affection fluctuates. It’s measurable, even predictable.”

Jeeny: “That’s a terrifying way to love anyone.”

Jack: “It’s the honest way. Every bond has a half-life.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming against the windowpane like a metronome counting down the beats of their tension. Jeeny leaned closer, her voice softer, her eyes deep, filled with that rare kind of empathy that refuses to give up even when logic wins the argument.

Jeeny: “So you think every relationship is just waiting to expire?”

Jack: “I think every relationship has its season. Some are summers — bright and brief. Some are winters — hard but enduring. Either way, pretending they’re eternal is self-deception.”

Jeeny: “But even seasons return. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe what matters is not that they end, but that they come back in different forms.”

Jack: He tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “You sound like someone who’s forgiven too much.”

Jeeny: “Or someone who’s seen people come and go enough times to realize that love isn’t loyalty — it’s grace.”

Host: The fan above groaned as it turned, scattering a faint swirl of smoke from Jack’s cigarette. The air shimmered faintly between them — like heat, like tension, like memory.

Jack: “Grace doesn’t keep the lights on when someone stops calling. Grace doesn’t fix the silence.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps you from closing the door forever.”

Jack: “Doors exist for a reason, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And so do windows.”

Host: Her words landed like a soft chord in a song that had been waiting for resolution. Jack looked at her — really looked — as if realizing that her gentleness wasn’t naivety but defiance.

Jack: “You ever had someone rank your friendship before?”

Jeeny: “Not out loud. But haven’t we all felt it? The quiet demotion, the slow drift from confidant to acquaintance?”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Yeah. Feels like disappearing.”

Jeeny: “It feels like being human.”

Jack: “So you’re saying Burchill’s husband wasn’t cruel — just observant.”

Jeeny: “No. He was cruel in his humor. Observation without empathy is cruelty.”

Jack: “Or clarity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Clarity sees the truth. Cruelty enjoys it.”

Host: The storm outside broke open, lightning flashing briefly through the window, illuminating the café in a sudden burst of white brilliance. For a heartbeat, both of them froze — two outlines in chiaroscuro, their truths suspended in that electric moment.

Jeeny: “Maybe he made that list because he didn’t trust her heart to stay. Maybe it was fear disguised as sarcasm.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just understood that affection’s fickleness is part of its beauty. Like a song topping the charts — it fades, but it’s still remembered.”

Jeeny: “That’s your problem, Jack. You think remembering is enough.”

Jack: “Isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. Living people aren’t memories. You can’t just archive affection.”

Jack: Smiles faintly. “You sound like a poet who keeps writing to ghosts.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic who’s afraid to admit he misses them.”

Host: The radio now played a slow, nostalgic tune — “Stand by Me.” Its melody wove through the silence like an echo of something both distant and achingly near.

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table, the lines of his face softening.

Jack: “You think she loved any of them, those ten friends?”

Jeeny: “I think she loved them all — just not forever. Maybe she didn’t know how. Or maybe she knew that trying to hold on too tightly turns affection into ownership.”

Jack: “And letting go?”

Jeeny: “Letting go is faith. Believing they mattered, even when they fade.”

Jack: He sighed, quietly. “Then maybe the Top Ten wasn’t vanity — maybe it was grief disguised as humor.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People joke about what hurts too much to name.”

Host: The storm began to ease, the rain slowing into a delicate, rhythmic whisper. The café grew still. The radio host announced the number one song — something upbeat and meaningless — but the two of them didn’t hear it.

Jack: “You know… maybe we all have a chart. People rise, fall, disappear. But the melody stays.”

Jeeny: “That’s what friendship really is — not permanence, but echo.”

Jack: “And maybe the real loyalty isn’t to the people who stay, but to the love that remains even when they don’t.”

Jeeny: Her voice a whisper now. “Then maybe you’re not such a cynic after all.”

Host: The lights dimmed, and the storm clouds parted, revealing a sliver of moonlight resting gently on the wet street outside.

Jack took a slow sip of his coffee, finally warm. Jeeny smiled across the table, her eyes soft, her hands still.

The radio faded to silence. The fan stopped turning. Only the quiet remained — steady, alive, honest.

Host: And in that silence, it became clear: affection may shift like a chart, but the song — the real song — never leaves the heart that heard it.

The camera pulled back, through the window, into the night, where the city lights shimmered like memories — fleeting, fickle, and beautifully human.