Poor, darling fellow - he died of food. He was killed by the

Host: The restaurant was almost empty — that strange hour between late lunch and early dinner when the city itself seemed to pause. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, landing on the white tablecloths like faint ashes of gold. A waiter moved silently across the room, the only sound the delicate clink of china and the slow hum of a ceiling fan spinning lazily above.

Jack sat at a corner table, leaning back, his jacket off, tie loosened. His grey eyes scanned the menu with the same skepticism one reserves for political promises. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, watching the steam rise — her expression calm, but her mind already somewhere deeper.

On the wall behind them, a framed quote glimmered in cursive script:
“Poor, darling fellow — he died of food. He was killed by the dinner table.” — Diana Vreeland.

Jeeny: “You know, that’s not just about food,” she said, her voice quiet, almost playful. “It’s about excess. About wanting so much that it ends up consuming you.”

Jack: “Or maybe,” he muttered, without looking up, “it’s just about a man who ate himself to death. Not everything’s a metaphor, Jeeny.”

Host: His tone was flat, but not unkind — more the weary drawl of someone who’s seen too much and feels too little. The light from the window caught the edges of his face, throwing faint shadows beneath his eyes. Jeeny smiled faintly — the kind of smile that meant she wasn’t going to let him off that easily.

Jeeny: “It’s always a metaphor, Jack. That’s the point. Diana Vreeland was talking about more than appetite. She meant indulgence — the kind that kills quietly. Wealth, comfort, reputation — all the things we keep feeding until they devour us.”

Jack: “And yet,” he said, setting the menu down, “everyone wants them. Everyone’s hungry for something — money, attention, validation. What’s wrong with wanting more?”

Jeeny: “Nothing. Until more becomes everything.”

Host: The air between them seemed to thicken — a stillness filled with the low hum of music, the distant chatter of another table, the faint smell of roasted garlic and butter. Jack leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with quiet interest.

Jack: “You’re talking like a monk, Jeeny. You really believe restraint is a virtue? Because last I checked, the world’s built by people who wanted more. The Wright brothers wanted more than walking. Jobs wanted more than existing. Ambition drives everything.”

Jeeny: “Ambition, yes. But indulgence? That’s different. Ambition builds. Indulgence consumes. There’s a thin line between creation and gluttony — and most people don’t see it until it’s too late.”

Jack: “You mean like that ‘poor, darling fellow’?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He wasn’t just killed by food. He was killed by wanting — by never knowing when to stop. The dinner table is just a symbol.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like perfume — fragrant, ephemeral, a little tragic. Jack sat back, chuckling softly, the kind of laugh that hides a question he doesn’t want to ask aloud.

Jack: “So what are you saying? That pleasure’s a sin? That I should eat plain soup and pray for enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “No, I’m saying pleasure needs balance. You can enjoy a feast — just don’t let it define you. People don’t die of food, Jack. They die of addiction. To comfort. To approval. To their own appetites.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that one.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have.”

Host: Her gaze turned inward for a moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. The light shifted slightly, golden deepening into amber. Outside, the sky began to dim — early evening crawling in through the glass like a memory.

Jeeny: “My father used to say, ‘If you feed your ego too well, it’ll start feeding on you.’ I didn’t understand it then. But I do now. I’ve seen people gorge themselves on status, relationships, work — until there’s nothing left but appetite.”

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Starve?”

Jeeny: “Discipline. Awareness. Knowing when to stop before the thing you love becomes the thing that kills you.”

Host: Jack reached for his glass, swirling the water slowly. His eyes softened — thoughtful, not yet agreeing, but no longer combative.

Jack: “You know... my old boss at the firm — he used to work eighteen hours a day. Built an empire. Everyone called him unstoppable. Then one morning, he just... didn’t show up. Heart attack at fifty-one. His wife said he died ‘doing what he loved.’”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently, “he died being consumed by what he loved. That’s different.”

Jack: “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. One is passion. The other is hunger. The first gives life. The second drains it.”

Host: The waiter appeared briefly, setting down their plates — salmon, roasted vegetables, a simple salad. The steam rose in small, fragrant curls. Neither of them moved to eat.

The room had fallen almost silent now, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? We spend half our lives chasing success and the other half learning how to digest it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And some never learn. They get addicted to the chase, to the taste of ‘more.’ It’s not just about money — it’s about power, validation, even love. Everything becomes consumption.”

Jack: “So you think restraint is happiness?”

Jeeny: “No. I think awareness is. Knowing when you’ve had enough — and being grateful for it.”

Host: The words landed softly, like snowflakes that somehow burned on contact. Jack leaned back, staring out the window — the neon signs beginning to glow outside, the faint buzz of nightlife waking up.

Jeeny: “Diana Vreeland saw it clearly — that elegance dies the moment appetite takes over. She wasn’t talking about a man choking on roast duck. She was warning us — all of us — that indulgence kills taste, kills beauty, kills meaning.”

Jack: “But wasn’t she the queen of excess herself? Vogue, luxury, fashion — she built her world on extravagance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it’s brilliant. Only someone who’s been devoured by beauty understands its danger.”

Host: The light above their table dimmed slightly, casting a warm, amber glow on the plates — untouched, perfect, tragic in their abundance. Jack’s mouth curved into something between irony and understanding.

Jack: “So maybe the dinner table isn’t the villain. Maybe it’s just the mirror. It shows who we’ve become.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Some see nourishment, some see temptation, some see death by desire.”

Jack: “And what do you see?”

Jeeny: “I see choice. Always choice.”

Host: She finally picked up her fork, sliced a small piece of salmon, and ate slowly — not with guilt, but grace. Jack watched her, then smiled faintly and followed suit.

The first bite was quiet. Almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, maybe the quote wasn’t about condemnation after all. Maybe it was irony. Maybe she was laughing at the absurdity of human appetite — how we eat, love, and chase as if immortality were a dessert waiting at the end.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe she was mourning it — that endless hunger we mistake for living.”

Jack: “You and your melancholy wisdom.”

Jeeny: “And you and your charming denial.”

Host: They both laughed — softly, wearily, beautifully. The sound filled the small space like warmth spreading through cold air.

Outside, the sky had turned indigo, the streetlights flickering to life one by one. Inside, two half-eaten plates sat between them — not a feast, not famine, just enough.

Jack: “So what’s the lesson, Jeeny? Don’t die of food?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling, “don’t die of wanting.”

Host: Her eyes caught the glow of the candle as she said it, the flame bending toward her as if drawn to the quiet truth in her voice. Jack nodded slowly, then raised his glass — not in toast, but in silent recognition.

He looked at her, then at the quote on the wall again, and murmured under his breath:

"He was killed by the dinner table..."

The camera would linger here — the two of them, framed by fading light and quiet understanding, their plates half-full, their hearts half-empty but healing.

Outside, the city pulsed on — hungry, dazzling, alive — while inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in the stillness that comes only when one finally stops feeding the hunger and starts tasting the life.