The more we are filled with thoughts of lust the less we find

Host:
The night was painted in deep blue and trembling gold — the kind of night that looked almost honest if you stared long enough. A slow piano drifted from somewhere inside the bar, its melancholy notes hanging in the air like smoke that refused to rise.

The rain had stopped an hour ago, leaving the pavement slick, reflecting streetlights like bruised constellations. Inside, the small jazz lounge hummed quietly — the scent of tobacco, whiskey, and forgotten promises thick in the air.

Jack sat at the bar, his grey eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. His glass of bourbon caught the amber light as he swirled it idly, lost somewhere between temptation and memory.

Across from him, at a small table near the window, Jeeny watched him — her brown eyes soft, but knowing. There was something in her gaze that could both forgive and accuse without a word. The space between them was charged — a quiet storm.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low but clear, cutting through the slow rhythm of the piano.

"The more we are filled with thoughts of lust the less we find true romantic love." — Douglas Horton

Jack:
(quietly, with a faint smirk)
That sounds like something said by a man who never really understood lust.

Jeeny:
Or maybe by one who understood it too well.

Jack:
(sipping his drink)
You think lust and love are enemies?

Jeeny:
They’re not enemies. But they speak different languages. One shouts, the other whispers.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
And I suppose you think the whisper’s the more sincere one.

Jeeny:
Always. The whisper survives the noise.

Jack:
But without lust, love never wakes up.

Jeeny:
No. Without love, lust never learns to speak.

Host:
The bartender moved quietly, polishing glasses, pretending not to hear. A single candle on the bar flickered, its flame bending like it was listening to their words.

Jack:
You really think lust diminishes love?

Jeeny:
It can. When the body becomes the goal instead of the gateway.

Jack:
(pausing)
You sound like a priest tonight.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
Maybe I’m just tired of people mistaking hunger for connection.

Jack:
And maybe connection’s just what hunger wants to be when it grows up.

Jeeny:
Maybe. But most people never let it grow up. They feed the fire, not the flame.

Jack:
(smirking)
Is there a difference?

Jeeny:
The fire burns for itself. The flame burns for something greater.

Jack:
And you think love’s the “something greater”?

Jeeny:
I don’t think — I know. Love isn’t about possession. It’s about revelation.

Jack:
And lust?

Jeeny:
Lust is about forgetting.

Host:
The piano changed keys, its melody softer now — almost hesitant. A man in the corner lit a cigarette, and the smoke rose in thin, graceful spirals, like souls trying to escape through air.

Jack:
You know, I think lust gets a bad name. It’s honest — pure even. At least it doesn’t pretend.

Jeeny:
It doesn’t have to pretend. That’s the danger.

Jack:
Danger makes it beautiful.

Jeeny:
No. Mystery makes it beautiful. Lust without mystery is just hunger.

Jack:
But without hunger, what are we?

Jeeny:
Human. Capable of patience.

Jack:
(smiling, shaking his head)
You’d turn every kiss into philosophy.

Jeeny:
And you’d turn every philosophy into a kiss.

Jack:
Maybe that’s balance.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s denial.

Host:
A train rumbled in the distance, faint but insistent, the sound of departure disguised as rhythm. The candle flickered again, shorter now, almost spent.

Jack:
I’ve always thought love and lust were stages of the same thing.

Jeeny:
They’re not stages. They’re choices.

Jack:
Choices?

Jeeny:
Yes. Lust is self-centered. Love is self-forgetful.

Jack:
(quietly)
And you think I only know the first kind.

Jeeny:
I think you’ve confused intensity with intimacy.

Jack:
That’s cruel.

Jeeny:
It’s true. You chase the fire because you’re afraid of the quiet it leaves behind.

Jack:
And you — you’re afraid to burn at all.

Jeeny:
No. I just want to burn for the right reason.

Host:
Her voice lingered in the smoke, soft but steady. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for a brief moment, his defiance faltered. Beneath it, something tender stirred, something unspoken but undeniably human.

Jack:
You make love sound sacred.

Jeeny:
It is.

Jack:
And lust profane.

Jeeny:
Not profane — just incomplete. It’s love’s shadow, not its rival.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
So we need the shadow to see the light.

Jeeny:
Yes. But the danger is when we start worshipping the shadow.

Jack:
And you think I do.

Jeeny:
I think you mistake movement for meaning.

Jack:
And you mistake restraint for purity.

Jeeny:
No. I just know the difference between touch that consumes and touch that transforms.

Jack:
(pauses, softer)
You think transformation’s even possible for people like me?

Jeeny:
(smiling gently)
Only if you stop running from stillness.

Host:
Outside, the rain began again, gentle but insistent. The city seemed to hush, as if the world itself was listening to their slow undoing.

Jack:
(quietly)
Maybe that’s the tragedy. We spend so long chasing the thrill that we forget the tenderness.

Jeeny:
Yes. Lust shouts. Love listens.

Jack:
But sometimes the shouting feels like living.

Jeeny:
And the listening feels like eternity.

Jack:
Eternity scares people.

Jeeny:
So does honesty.

Jack:
And what scares you?

Jeeny:
Forgetting what love feels like when it’s pure — when it’s not trying to win or conquer or prove.

Jack:
(softly)
That’s rare.

Jeeny:
That’s why it’s sacred.

Host:
The bartender turned off the lights one by one. Only the candle between them remained, its final light trembling like a confession.

Host:
And in that moment, Douglas Horton’s words hung in the air — fragile, truthful, and uncomfortably human:

That lust, when it becomes the center,
shrinks the soul instead of enlarging it —
reducing love’s symphony
to a single, desperate note.

That the heart’s longing is not for possession,
but for recognition —
for the tenderness that asks nothing
and still chooses everything.

That true romantic love
is not the fever of desire,
but the quiet courage to remain when desire fades,
to hold another’s fragility
without trying to own it.

And perhaps that is what the lover must learn:
that lust begins in the body,
but love —
real love —
begins where the body ends,
in the space that wants not to consume,
but to understand.

The piano stopped.
The rain slowed.
And as the last light died,
Jack and Jeeny sat in the darkness —
their silence neither lustful nor restrained,
but tender,
honest,
and, at last,
real.