Never do anything when you are in a temper, for you will do

Host: The rain had been falling since dawn — slow, deliberate, and endless, as if the sky itself had lost its patience. The small diner off the highway was nearly empty, the air thick with the smell of coffee, wet coats, and silence. A flickering neon sign outside bled its red glow across the window, painting everything inside with a restless pulse.

Jack sat in the booth by the window, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. His jaw was tight, his eyes distant — the kind of stare that belonged to someone still replaying a fight that had already ended. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair damp, her voice soft, but edged with something sharp — concern disguised as calm.

Jeeny: “Baltasar Gracián said, ‘Never do anything when you are in a temper, for you will do everything wrong.’”

Jack: (dry laugh) “Yeah? Sounds like something only a man who’s never had to take a punch would say.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what a man who’s learned from taking too many would say.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The rain tapped against the glass, rhythmic, almost meditative.

Jack: “You ever feel it, Jeeny? That flash — that burn in your chest — when someone crosses the line, and before you even know it, you’ve said or done something you can’t take back?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But I learned to wait for the fire to cool before I touched anything I loved.”

Jack: (snorts) “You talk like you’re made of patience. Some of us aren’t built that way.”

Jeeny: “No one’s built that way, Jack. It’s something you learn — usually after you’ve destroyed something that mattered.”

Host: Jack’s hand twitched around the cup. The faint clink of ceramic on the table betrayed the tension he tried to hide.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? I’ve lost jobs, friends… hell, I’ve probably scared off more people than I care to admit. All because of temper.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you still treat it like a badge?”

Jack: “Because it’s real. It’s the only time I feel honest. Anger doesn’t lie.”

Jeeny: “No. But it also doesn’t listen.”

Host: The lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting long, trembling shadows across the walls. Outside, the highway hummed with passing cars, each one a whisper of motion, each one leaving them behind.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that protest two years ago? The one downtown?”

Jack: (grim nod) “Yeah. I was there.”

Jeeny: “So was I. I saw you — shouting, throwing your sign at the police line.”

Jack: “They were beating kids. I wasn’t just going to stand there.”

Jeeny: “I know. But after you threw it, they beat harder. You think they heard your anger? Or just saw another reason to swing?”

Host: Jack looked up sharply. For a moment, his eyes flared — not with fury, but with the sting of truth.

Jack: “So you’re saying I should’ve just done nothing?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you should’ve done something right. Anger without control is like fire in dry grass — it burns fast, but it burns everything.”

Jack: “And what if waiting means people keep getting hurt?”

Jeeny: “Then you wait until your mind’s clear enough to strike where it matters.”

Host: Her voice was calm but steady, the kind of stillness that cut deeper than shouting ever could.

Jack: (after a long pause) “You ever lose control?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Once. My younger brother. He stole from me — from my savings. Said he needed it for school. I found out he’d been gambling. I screamed, threw a chair, told him I hoped he failed at everything he touched. He left that night. Didn’t speak to me for five years.”

Jack: “What happened?”

Jeeny: “He forgave me. But I still haven’t forgiven myself. My temper spoke before my heart did.”

Host: Her fingers traced the rim of her coffee cup. The steam had long vanished, but the memory of heat lingered.

Jack: “You really believe temper ruins everything?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. Just truth. Because when you’re angry, you’re not trying to understand — you’re trying to win.”

Jack: “And sometimes winning is survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But survival built on destruction leaves nothing to live for.”

Host: The rain thickened, a hard steady drumming on the glass, as if the world outside were trying to wash something away.

Jack: “You know, I used to think anger was strength. The louder you were, the more alive you felt. When I was working construction, that’s how it went — whoever shouted the loudest got heard. But it doesn’t work outside the noise.”

Jeeny: “No, it doesn’t. Because real strength isn’t in the fist — it’s in the pause before it moves.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Easy for you to say.”

Jeeny: “You think it’s easy? You think biting your tongue while someone spits in your face is easy? Patience isn’t peace, Jack — it’s pain, mastered.”

Host: That hit him like a bell. He looked up, really looked at her this time. Her eyes weren’t soft — they were steady, the eyes of someone who’d burned and rebuilt herself from the ashes.

Jack: “So you’re saying I should just let it go? Every time I’m pushed?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying — don’t decide when you’re burning. Decide when you’ve cooled.”

Jack: “And if the moment passes?”

Jeeny: “Then it was never worth your destruction.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, the rhythm gentler now. The window fogged with their breath, a blurred mirror of what they couldn’t quite say aloud.

Jack: “You ever wonder if people like us — the ones with tempers — are just wired wrong?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re wired human. But humanity is about choice. You can’t stop the spark. You just choose not to burn down the house.”

Jack: “You always sound like you’ve already forgiven the world.”

Jeeny: “No. I just stopped trying to set it on fire.”

Host: He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. A small smile touched the edge of his mouth — the first of the morning.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the lesson, huh? That being angry doesn’t make you strong — it just makes you busy being wrong.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Temper blinds the wise and makes fools bold.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked steadily, its sound like soft punctuation in their silence.

Jack: “You think I can change it? After all this time?”

Jeeny: “Of course. The same fire that destroys can also forge. You just have to decide what kind of man you want the heat to make.”

Host: Jack leaned back, exhaled. The muscles in his jaw loosened. The rain had stopped. Only the faint drip from the awning remained, like a metronome marking the end of the storm.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I almost quit my job this morning. My boss yelled at me for a mistake that wasn’t mine. I came here to calm down before I said something I couldn’t take back.”

Jeeny: “And did you?”

Jack: (smiling) “No. Guess Baltasar Gracián just saved my paycheck.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, her eyes bright now — not with amusement, but relief. Outside, the clouds began to thin, and a weak line of sunlight crept across the diner floor.

They sat there in quiet for a long time — not as teacher and student, not as cynic and believer — but as two people learning the same truth in different ways.

That temper may ignite the world,
but patience — patience lets it see the light.

And as the sun broke through the window, Jack’s hands — once ready to strike — rested open on the table, steady and still.