The greatest remedy for anger is delay.

Host: The sunset hung low over the harbor, casting streaks of copper and violet across the waves. The air smelled of salt, diesel, and the faint sweetness of rain long since gone. Boats rocked against their ropes, and the sky was heavy with that quiet tension that arrives before night — a moment suspended between calm and storm.

Jack stood near the pier, his coat open, wind cutting through the fabric. His hands were tight, jaw locked, eyes hard as if he’d been holding something too hot inside for too long.

Jeeny approached from the docks, her steps measured, her hair tousled by the breeze, her expression both tired and knowing. She carried two cups of coffee, steam rising between them like a fragile truce.

Jeeny: “You’ve been out here for hours.”

Jack: “Needed air.”

Jeeny: “You mean you needed to cool down.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: Jeeny handed him a cup. He took it without thanks, his fingers shaking slightly — not from cold, but from anger not yet spent.

Jeeny: “Seneca said something once: ‘The greatest remedy for anger is delay.’ I think he’d like you right now.”

Jack: “Delay, huh? That’s easy for philosophers. Try delaying when someone spits in your face.”

Jeeny: “I think that’s exactly when you need to.”

Host: The wind rose, ruffling the water, pulling at their words. A ship’s horn echoed in the distance, deep, melancholic.

Jack: “You know what makes me mad? How people can be cruel and still sleep at night. And then everyone says, ‘Calm down, Jack, think before you react.’ I am thinking. That’s why I’m angry.”

Jeeny: “Anger and thought don’t mix well, Jack. One burns while the other builds.”

Jack: “So what, I should just swallow it? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “No. Just don’t serve it hot. Let it cool before you feed it to the world.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a recipe.”

Jeeny: “It is. You overheat it, and everyone gets burned.”

Host: Jack laughed, a bitter, short sound, then looked out over the water, where the sun dipped below the horizon like a slow confession.

Jack: “You think delay fixes anything? It just postpones the inevitable. When something’s wrong, you have to act — now, before it festers.”

Jeeny: “No. Delay doesn’t mean inaction. It means direction. Anger is like a wave — you can’t stop it from rising, but if you wait, you can learn how to ride it without drowning.”

Jack: “Seneca probably said that from a marble villa with servants fanning him.”

Jeeny: “He said it after watching people destroy each other over impulse. Rome burned more from temper than treason.”

Jack: “And you think I’d burn Rome?”

Jeeny: “I think you’d burn yourself.”

Host: The coffee cooled in his hands, the steam gone. The light from the harbor reflected off his eyes, sharpening the edges of his face — a man split between pride and pain.

Jack: “You always sound like reason in a world built on reaction.”

Jeeny: “Because someone has to be.”

Jack: “Do you never get angry, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Of course I do. But I’ve learned to let it sit in the corner until it starts making sense.”

Jack: “And what if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then I don’t move. Anger that doesn’t teach you anything isn’t worth answering.”

Host: Her voice was calm, steady, like rain that falls after lightning. But there was a weight to it — the weight of someone who had once burned too, and learned the cost.

Jack: “When my father died, I remember I was angry. Not sad — angry. At him, at life, at everything. And everyone told me time would help. You know what time did? Nothing. It just made me quieter about it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It made you carry it better. That’s what delay does — it turns fire into form. It doesn’t erase the heat; it teaches you how to use it.”

Jack: “Maybe I don’t want to use it. Maybe I want to feel it.”

Jeeny: “Then feel it. Just don’t let it decide for you.”

Host: Jack turned, his jaw tight, his eyes wet but defiant. The wind caught a strand of Jeeny’s hair, lifting it like a flag of stillness between them.

Jack: “You make it sound easy — waiting. But you know what delay feels like when you’re furious? It feels like a cage.”

Jeeny: “No. It feels like self-respect. It’s what separates reaction from response.”

Jack: “And what’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Reaction is when anger drives you. Response is when you drive anger.”

Host: He looked at her, really looked — as if he’d been arguing with the world for so long that he’d forgotten what understanding looked like. The harbor lights blinked, reflected in the water like a thousand tiny truths.

Jack: “You think delay saves you?”

Jeeny: “Every time. It’s the space where the better version of you catches up.”

Jack: “And what if that version never does?”

Jeeny: “Then delay again.”

Host: The sound of waves filled the space between their words, soft, endless, forgiving.

Jack: “You ever held back so long you forgot what you wanted to say?”

Jeeny: “Yes. And every time, I was glad I did.”

Jack: “You think that’s strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s mercy.”

Jack: “For who?”

Jeeny: “For everyone, Jack — especially yourself.”

Host: The last light faded from the sky, leaving only shadows and the silver glow of the moon breaking through clouds. Jeeny sipped her coffee, her breath visible, her expression peaceful in the cold.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Seneca said that because he was scared of his own temper?”

Jeeny: “Or maybe because he wasn’t. Maybe he’d seen what happened when you let it rule.”

Jack: “You think I’m ruled by mine?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you’re afraid of what happens when you stop being angry.”

Jack: “And what happens?”

Jeeny: “You have to face what started it.”

Host: The words hit him like a wave, slow, cold, clean. He looked out at the dark water, listening to the distant cries of gulls.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think if I delay too long, I’ll forget why I was angry in the first place.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the point.”

Host: The tide came in, lapping at the pier, erasing the footprints they had left. The night had settled, quiet, gentle, forgiving.

Jack: “So delay is the cure?”

Jeeny: “Not the cure — the space to remember what you’re curing.”

Jack: “And if I wait too long?”

Jeeny: “Then you might just heal.”

Host: Jack smiled, a rare, tired smile, the kind that comes when anger finally runs out of fuel. He set his cup down, the sound a small, honest ending.

Jeeny: “You feel better?”

Jack: “No. But I feel quieter.”

Jeeny: “That’s the beginning.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of salt and night. The sea, calm now, mirrored the moon, and for a moment, it was impossible to tell where the water ended and the sky began.

They stood there — two silhouettes against the edge of anger, still, breathing, alive — and the night itself seemed to echo Seneca’s old truth, quiet and eternal:

That delay is not weakness, but wisdom — the pause where fury learns to kneel, and the heart, at last, remembers how to listen.