Nobody minded what you did in bed or what you said about God, a

Host: The London evening was a cathedral of fog and lamplight — that damp, poetic gloom where cigarette smoke feels like part of the weather. The pub on Soho’s Dean Street was dim, the air thick with jazz, ink, and the ghosts of gossip. The year outside didn’t matter — it might’ve been 1948 or last night; the mood was timeless, smoky, cynical, alive.

Jack sat by the window, his glass half-full of whiskey, his grey eyes reflecting the neon sign that read The Dog & Paradox. Jeeny arrived fashionably late — as always — her trench coat glistening with rain, her hair undone from the wind. She slid into the seat opposite him with the grace of someone who carried rebellion like perfume.

Jeeny: (pulling off her gloves) “Simon Raven once said, ‘Nobody minded what you did in bed or what you said about God, a very civilized attitude in 1948.’”

Jack: (raising his glass) “A toast to that civilization. Pity it didn’t last.”

Host: The bartender laughed somewhere behind them, polishing glasses that would soon be dirty again. Piano notes drifted through the smoky air — lazy, seductive, like a secret being whispered just out of reach.

Jeeny: “He was talking about post-war England — when the air was still heavy with loss but suddenly light with freedom. When people had seen too much to judge anymore.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. I think they were just tired. When you’ve watched the world burn, you stop caring who someone sleeps with or what prayers they mumble.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Tolerance born of exhaustion — but still tolerance. Civilization, even if accidental.”

Jack: “And now? We’ve got comfort, not catastrophe, and yet everyone’s offended again. Every opinion’s a crime; every desire, a headline.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “So you miss the days when sin was private?”

Jack: “No. I miss when privacy was sacred.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping the window like a critic too polite to knock. Outside, people hurried through the wet streets — silhouettes moving under umbrellas, all carrying stories no one else would ever know.

Jeeny lit a cigarette, the flame catching her eyes, the smoke curling upward like a question.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Raven meant by ‘civilized.’ Not permissive — just grown-up. People who could disagree about God without declaring war, love who they loved without turning it into policy.”

Jack: “You’re describing utopia.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m describing restraint. A time when people believed freedom didn’t need an audience.”

Jack: “And you think we’ve lost that?”

Jeeny: “Look around. We share confessions for followers now, not absolution.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “We replaced priests with algorithms.”

Jeeny: “And they’re less forgiving.”

Host: The piano paused, replaced by the murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The world outside seemed smaller than their booth, and somehow more fragile.

Jack: “Raven was being sardonic, of course. He loved civilization, but he didn’t trust it. He saw how easily manners become masks.”

Jeeny: “Still — masks are better than mobs.”

Jack: (smiling) “You sound like an old aristocrat.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just like the idea of dignity — even when it’s out of fashion.”

Jack: “Dignity requires distance. And we’ve lost that too. Everyone’s broadcasting their souls.”

Jeeny: “That’s the irony, isn’t it? The more we share, the less we mean it.”

Host: She took a drag from her cigarette, the smoke trailing upward, blurring her face in the half-light. Jack watched her with that mixture of amusement and melancholy reserved for those who believe too much in lost things.

Jeeny: “Imagine living in a world where no one cared what you did in bed or what you said about God. That’s not decadence — that’s maturity.”

Jack: “Maturity’s overrated. Give people freedom, and they use it to prove how childish they are.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical.”

Jack: “I’m observant.”

Jeeny: “You’re nostalgic.”

Jack: “Maybe. But tell me, Jeeny — do you really think we’ve evolved? We used to whisper about lovers; now we post them. We used to question God; now we cancel Him.”

Jeeny: “We don’t cancel Him — we replace Him. With ourselves.”

Jack: “Ah, the modern creed: Thou shalt be thy own deity.”

Jeeny: “And still feel empty.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights a little more. The pub glowed like an ember in the fog — the kind of place where truth could speak quietly without fear of interruption.

Jack: “You ever think civilization’s just a brief pause between barbarisms?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I’d rather live in the pause than the chaos.”

Jack: “And what defines the pause?”

Jeeny: “When people stop shouting long enough to listen. When curiosity matters more than certainty.”

Jack: (after a pause) “That sounds like faith.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s manners.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You’re starting to sound like Oscar Wilde.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re drinking too slowly.”

Host: They both laughed. It wasn’t loud — just soft and real, the kind of laughter that carries memory in its breath.

Jeeny: “I wonder if Raven missed that version of England — the one where people lived and let live, before everyone started performing virtue instead of practicing it.”

Jack: “He didn’t miss it. He mourned it. Because it takes wars, or losses, to remind people how unimportant their judgments are.”

Jeeny: “And peace gives them time to judge again.”

Jack: “Exactly. We mistake safety for moral superiority.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the trick is to live dangerously without harming anyone.”

Jack: “A paradox.”

Jeeny: “A civilized one.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked past midnight. The world outside was still raining, but inside, it felt dry — warm, suspended. The music started again, a slow, melancholy trumpet.

Jack leaned forward, his voice low.

Jack: “You know what I think Raven was really saying?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That civilization isn’t about rules. It’s about indifference — the elegant kind. The kind that lets people breathe.”

Jeeny: “Indifference born of empathy, not apathy.”

Jack: “Exactly. Knowing everyone’s different and not needing to prove it.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound simple.”

Jack: “It is — until someone decides they’re right.”

Host: The music swelled, the trumpet bending its last note like a sigh. Jeeny stubbed out her cigarette, watching the smoke fade. Jack finished his drink.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know what the most civilized thing might be, Jack?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “To stop mistaking judgment for intelligence.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And faith for weakness.”

Jeeny: “And privacy for shame.”

Jack: “And difference for danger.”

Host: The rain slowed, the neon sign flickered, and somewhere, a distant church bell marked the hour. The pub felt timeless — caught between eras, between sins, between breaths.

Jeeny: “Raven would’ve liked tonight, don’t you think?”

Jack: (smiling) “A smoky room, a clever woman, and the illusion that civilization still exists? Yes, Jeeny. He would’ve loved it.”

Host: She laughed — a quiet, rich sound that cut through the dim air like the flick of a lighter. They sat in silence after that, not because they’d run out of things to say, but because they’d finally said something true.

Host: Outside, the fog swallowed the street, and the city carried on, too busy, too loud, too modern to notice that, for a moment in a half-forgotten pub, two people had resurrected an old idea —

That civilization isn’t about laws or luxury,
but about the courage to let others live as they are.

And somewhere between laughter and quiet,
Jack whispered — half to Jeeny, half to himself:

Jack: “Maybe being civilized isn’t about what we believe… but how gently we believe it.”

Host: The lamplight flickered, the rain began again, and the night exhaled — elegant, tired, and still beautifully human.