Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.

Host: The morning was a gray one — the kind of light that doesn’t shine, but simply exists, soft and indifferent. The city was barely awake; steam rose from manhole covers, cars grumbled, and the smell of cheap coffee mixed with rain on pavement.

Inside a small corner diner, Jack sat at the counter, stirring a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. The radio played faintly — an old blues tune whispering through static. Jeeny slid onto the stool beside him, her hair damp, her eyes bright with that stubborn spark that refused to fade even in dull weather.

Jeeny: “You know what I read this morning, Jack? W. C. Fields once said, ‘Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.’”

Host: Jack’s brow arched. He let out a small, dry laugh, the kind that carried more weariness than humor.

Jack: “Yeah, sounds about right. Smile first, lie early, survive the day.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what he meant?”

Jack: “Sure. A man doesn’t write something like that because he believes in optimism. He writes it because he’s tired of pretending to.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, stirring her tea with the tip of her finger, the spoon untouched. Her reflection in the window looked like a ghost of hope against a rainy city.

Jeeny: “Or maybe he meant that sometimes, you have to fake the smile to find the real one. Like a warm-up act for the soul.”

Jack: “Fake it till you feel it? That’s the anthem of our generation. But I’ve seen too many people fake themselves right into emptiness.”

Jeeny: “Maybe emptiness isn’t the enemy, Jack. Maybe it’s just the quiet before something true.”

Jack: “Or the echo after something died.”

Host: A waitress passed by, pouring coffee with the rhythm of habit. The din of clinking cups and soft chatter framed their conversation — a muted orchestra of ordinary life.

Jeeny: “You really think every smile is a lie?”

Jack: “Not every smile. Just the morning ones. The ones you wear before the world gives you a reason to.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather not smile at all?”

Jack: “I’d rather earn it.”

Host: His voice was low, almost a growl, but beneath it, there was a tremor — the kind that comes from fatigue, not anger.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people like Fields made jokes about it. They were tired too. Tired of people expecting joy like it’s punctual.”

Jack: “That’s exactly it. Society loves morning smiles — they photograph well. Nobody wants to see the honesty that comes before caffeine.”

Jeeny: “Or the ache that comes after.”

Host: Raindrops began to gather on the window, sliding down like slow tears. The neon sign outside — “OPEN ALL NIGHT” — flickered, a reminder that even places of comfort eventually burn out.

Jack: “I remember when I used to wake up smiling. Back when I thought every day had promise. Then bills, heartbreak, layoffs — all of it taught me better.”

Jeeny: “Taught you what?”

Jack: “That smiling early doesn’t make the day better. It just makes the disappointment punctual.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s afraid to hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s expensive, Jeeny. And it rarely pays back.”

Host: Jeeny’s gaze softened. She reached for her mug, both hands wrapped around it like a small act of warmth in a cold world.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to say something different. She said smiling wasn’t about feeling good — it was about remembering you could.”

Jack: “Your grandmother must’ve had better mornings than I do.”

Jeeny: “She lived through war, Jack. She smiled through sirens. If she could manage that, maybe the least we can do is manage traffic.”

Host: The sound of her voice cut through the gloom — not loud, but steady, like a lantern flickering against fog.

Jack: “That’s the thing though. People like her had purpose in their pain. We just have noise. Endless scrolling, endless talking, but no meaning.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the smile is rebellion. Maybe it’s not about pretending — it’s about refusing to drown.”

Jack: “You think a grin can save you?”

Jeeny: “Not save. Remind.”

Host: The rain had slowed, becoming more of a whisper than a storm. The light through the window was paler now, as if the day itself was eavesdropping.

Jack: “So you wake up every day, smile, and get it over with?”

Jeeny: “I try. Some days it’s hollow. Other days, it’s real. But it’s something. It’s like stretching — not because it feels good, but because staying stiff hurts worse.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Not noble. Necessary.”

Host: Jack let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping as if carrying more than words could reveal. The coffee was gone, the cup empty, yet he still held it — like holding onto a habit that once meant comfort.

Jeeny: “You ever notice, Jack, how even comedians sound sad when the laughter stops? Fields joked about smiling because he knew the world demanded it. But the joke — the real joke — was that he kept doing it anyway.”

Jack: “So, resilience disguised as sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Humor’s just hope with a nervous laugh.”

Host: A truck horn blared outside, echoing against the wet street. A couple at the far end of the diner laughed, their sound like tiny sparks in the gloom.

Jack: “You really think laughter’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s not enough — but it’s something that keeps the soul from rusting.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what the quote really means then. Start with a smile — not because life deserves it, but because you do.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re getting it.”

Host: The waitress came by, refilling their cups. The steam rose, swirling between them like a truce.

Jeeny: “You know, I think the secret is that W. C. Fields wasn’t mocking the smile — he was mocking the world that made us fake it. The man smiled through cynicism because it was his armor.”

Jack: “And maybe I’ve just been going to war without mine.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, a quiet, melodic sound that felt like forgiveness.

Jeeny: “Then start tomorrow with one, Jack. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s fake. It might surprise you halfway through the day.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll have one more reason to laugh at the irony.”

Host: For the first time, Jack actually smiled — not a big one, but a real one, the kind that shows more in the eyes than the mouth.

The rain had stopped completely now. The light from the window had shifted again — warmer, golden, as if even the sun had decided to play along with the joke.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I think Fields would’ve liked you.”

Jeeny: “No, he would’ve made fun of me. But he’d have done it with love.”

Host: Jack stood, tossing a few bills on the counter, his expression lighter than when he walked in.

Jeeny: “Where are you going?”

Jack: “To start my day — with a smile. And maybe… to get it over with.”

Host: She watched him go, the door chime ringing softly behind him. Then she looked out the window, where the street had begun to shine under a thin veil of sunlight.

Her reflection smiled back at her — small, imperfect, but real.

Host: The camera would linger there — on that face, on that faint curve of defiance and grace.

Because in a world that asks for smiles we don’t mean, hers — and his — were the rarest kind:
The kind that began as a mask…
and ended as a miracle.