She is a peacock in everything but beauty.

Host: The theatre was closing for the night — the air still humming with the ghost of applause. Golden dust floated through beams of leftover stage light, and the faint scent of perfume, roses, and vanity lingered in the velvet air.

The mirrors backstage were still glowing, each one rimmed with a constellation of bulbs reflecting faces that were no longer there. Somewhere beyond the curtains, the city murmured softly — carriages, footsteps, whispers — the world beyond performance still turning.

At the center of it all, Jack sat on a trunk, his coat slung over one shoulder, his expression wry, thoughtful — a man both entertained and exhausted by the spectacle of human nature. Across the room, Jeeny stood before a mirror, still half in costume — a gown of deep emerald, her hair pinned high, her smile a blade disguised as grace.

The tension between them glowed as brightly as the bulbs.

Jeeny: “You didn’t clap.”

Jack: “I did, internally. My soul applauded three times.”

Jeeny: “Your soul has terrible manners.”

Jack: “It’s selective. Besides, it doesn’t applaud pretense.”

Jeeny: “Pretense?”

Jack: “Oscar Wilde once said, ‘She is a peacock in everything but beauty.’ And I couldn’t help thinking of your performance.”

Jeeny: (arching an eyebrow) “Careful, Jack. Insults wrapped in literature are still insults.”

Jack: “It’s not an insult. It’s an observation.”

Jeeny: “From a man too afraid to perform.”

Jack: “I perform every day. Just not for applause.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re wasting your best lines.”

Host: The room trembled slightly as the last of the stage lights dimmed, throwing long shadows across the mirrors. Her reflection looked like a painting — luminous, unreal, defiant.

Jeeny: “You think Wilde meant it cruelly, don’t you? That being a peacock without beauty is an indictment of vanity.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? A peacock is only admired because of its feathers. Without them, it’s just noise and arrogance.”

Jeeny: “Then you misunderstand beauty. The feathers aren’t what make the peacock magnificent. It’s the audacity to show them.”

Jack: “Audacity doesn’t replace grace.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t have to. It just needs courage.”

Jack: “So you’d rather be admired for daring than for depth?”

Jeeny: “Admiration fades either way. I’d rather be remembered.”

Host: Jack stood, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He moved closer to her — not as an adversary, but as someone orbiting a force he couldn’t quite name.

Jack: “You make spectacle sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “It is. People spend their lives hiding. I spend mine being seen. That’s freedom.”

Jack: “Or addiction.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least mine has applause.”

Jack: “You think Wilde admired that?”

Jeeny: “Wilde admired everything that burned too brightly to last. The quote wasn’t judgment — it was fascination. ‘She is a peacock in everything but beauty’ — it means she has the arrogance, the confidence, the glory, but not the flaw of perfection. That’s what makes her human.”

Jack: “You’re twisting it into flattery.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m translating it into survival.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, tapping against the tall windows — a soft applause from the heavens. The reflection in the mirror shifted; two figures now, side by side, haloed in fading light.

Jack: “You really think arrogance is forgivable if it’s performed well?”

Jeeny: “I think arrogance is honesty wearing jewelry. Everyone believes they’re special. The only difference is who admits it.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous philosophy.”

Jeeny: “So is humility when it becomes self-loathing.”

Jack: “You’ve rehearsed that line.”

Jeeny: “All good truths deserve rehearsal.”

Host: She turned, meeting his gaze fully for the first time. Her expression was unguarded now — no mask, no character, just the woman beneath the light.

Jeeny: “You think vanity is sin. I think it’s survival. You call me a peacock, but tell me, Jack — what’s wrong with color in a world that worships gray?”

Jack: “Nothing. Unless the color blinds you to meaning.”

Jeeny: “Meaning is overrated. Beauty feeds the starving part of the soul that logic can’t reach.”

Jack: “And when the beauty fades?”

Jeeny: “Then the soul eats memory. And memory, if you live fiercely enough, can taste just as sweet.”

Jack: “So you’d rather be remembered for artifice than forgotten in authenticity?”

Jeeny: “No. I’d rather be known — even if knowing me confuses people.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, though there was no mockery in it — only admiration wrapped in surrender. The glow from the bulbs around the mirror flickered, reflecting a thousand small suns.

Jack: “You know, maybe Wilde would’ve loved you. You speak in paradox the way he breathed it.”

Jeeny: “And you hate paradoxes because they don’t fit into your clean little boxes of truth.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe I envy people who can wear contradiction like silk.”

Jeeny: “Then stop envying. Start understanding.”

Jack: “Understanding what?”

Jeeny: “That beauty isn’t moral, and confidence isn’t sin. The world owes no apology for shining too loudly.”

Host: The light dimmed again — the kind of dim that carries both intimacy and ending. Jeeny began to unpin her hair, the dark strands falling like the slow unraveling of armor.

Jack: “You still haven’t told me what beauty means to you.”

Jeeny: “Beauty is bravery that forgot to hide.”

Jack: “That’s not what Wilde meant.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it’s what he wished he’d said.”

Jack: “You really believe imperfection is beautiful?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind that’s real. Perfect beauty is sterile. It dies the moment you touch it. But imperfection—oh, Jack—it lingers.”

Jack: “Like perfume on an empty stage.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: She smiled, soft now, almost tender, and began to gather her things. The mirror, once dazzling, now showed only the faint ghost of her reflection — the performance fading into personhood.

Jeeny: “Maybe I am a peacock in everything but beauty. But you know what that really means?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “It means I live brightly, even if the light offends the dark.”

Jack: “And when the crowd forgets you?”

Jeeny: “Then I’ll still have the feathers. And the memory of flight.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, the stage behind them dim and silent now, the last echo of applause buried beneath the rain.

Jeeny walked toward the door, her emerald dress catching one final flicker of gold. Jack watched, a quiet awe softening the usual sharpness in his eyes.

Host: Because Oscar Wilde’s irony had become her declaration — a peacock in everything but beauty was never an insult.
It was a reminder:

That beauty, stripped of audacity, is fragile.
That pride, when tempered by art, becomes power.
And that some souls — too radiant, too flawed —
are not meant to be understood.
Only remembered.

And as the theatre lights died, her laughter lingered —
the last sound of color
in a world still afraid of its own brightness.