Talk ought always to run obliquely, not nose to nose with no

Host: The bar was old — the kind that smelled faintly of oak, smoke, and memory. The lights were dim, golden, hanging low enough to turn every glass into a small sun. Outside, the rain painted lazy streaks across the wide windows, and the sound of it — gentle, rhythmic — filled the silences between words like punctuation in a half-remembered poem.

At a corner booth, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other, a single candle flickering between them. The table was littered with coffee cups, empty glasses, and the ruins of a conversation that had gone on too long and too honestly.

Pinned above their booth, faded and yellowing, was a quote scrawled in ink on an old bar napkin:
"Talk ought always to run obliquely, not nose to nose with no chance of mental escape." — Frank Moore Colby.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Oblique talk. I like that. Like two dancers circling each other, pretending not to notice how close they’re getting.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Or two fencers, hiding the strike behind politeness.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, tapping faster on the window, almost as if the weather wanted to join in. The bartender, polishing glasses at the far end, turned up the radio. Jazz — slow, sly, conversational.

Jeeny: “You know what Colby meant, right? He wasn’t talking about avoidance. He meant grace. The art of conversation isn’t confession — it’s play. You leave space for imagination.”

Jack: (dryly) “And misinterpretation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s where curiosity lives. Straight talk kills mystery. Oblique talk keeps it alive.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the candlelight flickering in his gray eyes. His fingers drummed against his glass — a slow, restless rhythm.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Sometimes I think people hide behind elegance. We talk in circles because we’re afraid to collide.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Says the man who turns every question into philosophy.”

Jack: “Philosophy is just structured avoidance.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a dance. The difference is whether you’re running from the truth or circling it until it trusts you enough to come closer.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses without a word. The smell of whiskey rose in soft waves — sharp, honest, comforting. Jeeny lifted hers and stared into it like it held an oracle.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how some people can talk for hours and say nothing, while others say one sentence and leave you undone?”

Jack: “The second kind scare me.”

Jeeny: “Because they don’t let you hide?”

Jack: “Because they don’t play by Colby’s rule.”

Host: A faint smile crossed her face, the kind that means recognition, not amusement. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her voice dropping lower.

Jeeny: “Maybe you need that. Maybe you need someone who talks straight enough to break through your angles.”

Jack: (smirking) “And ruin the art of conversation? Never.”

Jeeny: “Art without risk is decoration.”

Jack: “And conversation without disguise is therapy.”

Host: The music swelled for a moment, the saxophone winding through the air like smoke. Jeeny tilted her head, studying him — not the words, but the pauses between them.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why we talk the way we do? Why we build metaphors like fortresses? You tell me stories about life, philosophy, politics — but never about yourself.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s because stories survive honesty better than people do.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — still telling them.”

Host: The rain softened again, easing into a steady whisper. Jack looked toward the window, his reflection warped in the glass — a man caught between thought and vulnerability.

Jack: “Colby said talk should run obliquely. Maybe he was protecting us from ourselves. A direct conversation is like standing too close to a mirror — all flaws, no mystery.”

Jeeny: “But mirrors don’t lie.”

Jack: “That’s the problem.”

Host: Jeeny smiled sadly, stirring her drink. The ice clinked softly, echoing the rhythm of the rain.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about oblique talk? It’s mercy. You can tell the truth gently, let someone discover it instead of stabbing them with it.”

Jack: “Mercy or manipulation?”

Jeeny: “Mercy. A good conversation doesn’t strip you bare. It undresses the mind slowly.”

Host: The words hung between them, tender and electric. Jack’s lips curved in that faint, reluctant smile of his — the one that admitted understanding but refused surrender.

Jack: “You’re saying the best talk seduces, not shouts.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It leaves room for silence — the most honest sentence we have.”

Host: They both fell quiet. The candle flickered. The saxophone drew out one long, yearning note, then faded into applause from the radio’s distant audience.

Jack: (after a while) “You know, I used to hate small talk. Thought it was shallow.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think small talk is where the soul hides until it feels safe enough to speak.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re learning the oblique art, Jack.”

Jack: “No. I’m learning that directness without tenderness is cruelty.”

Host: The clock behind the bar chimed ten. The rain had stopped; the window fogged with the breath of passing time. Jeeny took one last sip of her drink, setting the glass down with the grace of someone concluding a poem.

Jeeny: “You know, if conversation is a dance, maybe the goal isn’t to win — it’s to keep moving without stepping on each other’s truths.”

Jack: “And if we stop moving?”

Jeeny: “Then the silence has to do the talking.”

Host: The bartender turned off the radio. The last notes of jazz faded into stillness. Jack and Jeeny sat for a moment longer, the space between them comfortable, alive, unforced — the kind of silence that only exists after every necessary word has been said sideways.

Jack stood, slipped on his jacket, and glanced back at the napkin with Colby’s quote still pinned above them.

Jack: “Maybe oblique talk isn’t about avoidance at all. Maybe it’s about respect — giving someone the space to arrive at the truth on their own.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s trust — believing the truth will still be waiting when they do.”

Host: They walked out into the cool night. The streetlamps shimmered on the wet pavement, their reflections bending softly, like conversation itself — never straight, never still, always alive with possibility.

And behind them, the empty booth remained, its candle still flickering faintly, illuminating that single line —
"Talk ought always to run obliquely..."

A gentle reminder that the best truths aren’t forced —
they are invited,
slowly,
through the art of oblique understanding.