The devil has put a penalty on all things we enjoy in life.

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, brimming with the scent of smoke, coffee, and a faint trace of sin. The neon lights of a downtown bar bled red into the wet pavement, shimmering like the echo of temptation itself. Inside, the air was thick with jazz and laughter — the kind that sounds like forgetting.

In the far corner, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other at a small round table, an ashtray between them, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside two glasses. Jack’s tie was undone, his eyes half in shadow, half in memory. Jeeny’s hair glowed faintly under the neon light, her expression soft, knowing, but unafraid.

On a torn napkin between them, Jeeny had scribbled the quote:
“The devil has put a penalty on all things we enjoy in life. Either we suffer in health or we suffer in soul or we get fat.” – Albert Einstein.

She tapped the paper lightly with her finger, her voice carrying that lyrical mix of irony and sincerity.

Jeeny: “Einstein said that. The man who gave us the theory of relativity — and still managed to sum up human misery in a single sentence.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the only formula that really matters,” he said, pouring himself another glass. “Pleasure equals guilt divided by consequence.”

Host: The band in the corner shifted tunes, the piano rolling into something slow, smoky, and sad. A saxophone cried like a lonely confession.

Jeeny: “You make it sound mathematical. But isn’t it more moral? Maybe the devil isn’t punishing us — maybe he’s teaching us moderation.”

Jack: “Moderation,” he snorted, leaning back. “That’s just what people preach when they’ve run out of courage to indulge. Everything beautiful comes with a cost — food, love, art, desire. If there’s a devil, he didn’t invent the penalty. He just wrote the fine print.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? That’s exactly the trap. We chase joy like it’s stolen property. We can’t love without guilt, we can’t eat without shame, we can’t rest without calling it laziness. The penalty isn’t the devil’s — it’s ours. We built it ourselves.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, watching them from afar like someone who’d seen too many versions of this argument before. The smell of bourbon and burnt orange peel hung in the air.

Jack: “And yet, you still drink, Jeeny. You still sit here, in the middle of the night, breaking your own commandments. Don’t tell me you’ve escaped the devil’s game — you’re just better at pretending you enjoy the punishment.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I just accept it,” she replied, lifting her glass. “Maybe life isn’t about avoiding the penalty. Maybe it’s about learning which suffering you can live with.”

Host: The cigarette smoke swirled between them, painting ghosts in the air. The light from the sign outside — a red “OPEN” flickering like a heartbeat — flashed across Jack’s face in rhythm with his thoughts.

Jack: “So you’d rather get fat in body than hollow in soul?”

Jeeny: “If it means I’ve tasted joy — yes. The body can recover. The soul doesn’t heal as easily.”

Jack: “You talk like sin is salvation.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m saying that guilt is hell, and we built it brick by brick out of fear of pleasure.”

Host: He laughed, a dry, heavy sound. Then took a sip, winced, set the glass down harder than he meant to. His eyes were distant now, as if searching the bottom of his drink for an answer that refused to rise.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said, “that everything that feels right ends up killing you? The food that comforts, the drink that warms, the person you love too much — they all take their toll. Maybe the devil doesn’t even need to tempt us anymore. We do his job for him.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve turned joy into a transaction. We can’t even feel happy without wondering what it’ll cost. But Einstein wasn’t talking about the devil as some monster with horns. He was talking about consequence — the natural balance of things. Every pleasure leaves an imprint. But that doesn’t make it evil.”

Host: Her voice was steady, yet tinged with ache, as though she were defending not philosophy but her own fragile heart. Jack studied her — the way her fingers rested on the glass, the way her eyes seemed to hold both light and lament.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny. But tell me — have you ever lost someone because they loved pleasure more than life?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered.

Host: The music softened, the bar fell quiet, and the weight of her answer settled like dust.

Jeeny: “My brother. He drank himself to death by twenty-eight. Said it made him feel alive. And for a while, it did. Until it didn’t. That’s what I mean, Jack — there’s a line between joy and escape. Cross it, and the devil doesn’t have to punish you. You’ll do it yourself.”

Jack: “So pleasure is a test?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a mirror. It shows you what you really love — and what you’re willing to destroy to keep it.”

Host: The clock above the bar ticked past midnight. Outside, a light rain began, spattering against the windows, blurring the reflections of streetlights into rivers of red and gold. Jack rubbed his temple, his voice softer now.

Jack: “You always find a way to make even the devil sound philosophical.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he is. Maybe he’s just the name we give to the part of us that confuses excess for freedom.”

Jack: “So, moderation again?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly, eyes glowing in the half-light. “Wisdom. The kind that knows when to taste and when to stop. The kind that lets you enjoy without belonging to what you enjoy.”

Host: The rain fell harder, the music slowed. Jack poured what was left of the whiskey into two glasses. He slid one toward her, his voice barely audible above the saxophone’s lament.

Jack: “Then let’s drink to that. To wisdom — and whatever parts of us are still free.”

Jeeny: “And to pleasure,” she added. “Because without it, even virtue tastes like ash.”

Host: They clinked glasses, the sound sharp, pure — like crystal cutting through fog. The liquid fire burned their throats, but neither flinched. The bar light dimmed, the rain softened, and for a moment, both seemed at peace — two wanderers who had made their truce with the devil, understanding now that his penalty was not damnation, but merely the price of being alive.

Outside, the street shimmered, reflecting the neon words: OPEN.
And for once, so were they.