The most dangerous food is wedding cake.

Host: The restaurant was closing for the night. The candles on the tables had melted into small pools of wax, and the faint scent of wine, roasted garlic, and laughter lingered in the air like perfume left behind after a party. Through the big windows, the city lights winked mischievously, reflecting off the empty glasses and half-folded napkins.

Host: Jack sat at a corner table, nursing the last of his drink. His tie hung loose, his eyes amused but tired — the expression of a man who’s seen too much sincerity to trust it completely. Across from him, Jeeny sat barefoot now, her heels abandoned under the table, her hair falling messily across her shoulders. Between them, resting beside a silver dessert fork, was a napkin with a single quote written in ink, like a toast turned into a dare:

“The most dangerous food is wedding cake.”
— James Thurber

Host: The words glowed in the candlelight — half joke, half prophecy.

Jack: “You know,” he said, smiling faintly, “that’s probably the smartest line ever written about love.”

Jeeny: “About love,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “or about marriage?”

Jack: “Aren’t they the same thing — until they aren’t?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, laughing softly. “Love is hunger. Marriage is the menu.”

Host: Jack chuckled, leaning back. “You make it sound like a trap.”

Jeeny: “Not a trap,” she said. “Just a commitment to digestion. People think wedding cake is sweet — but it’s heavy. It’s layered. It sticks with you.”

Jack: “Like guilt,” he said dryly.

Jeeny: “Or memory,” she countered.

Host: The waiter passed quietly through the room, gathering plates and humming to himself, careful not to disturb the two philosophers of the midnight hour.

Jack: “Thurber was a cynic,” Jack said, “but a funny one. He knew humor was just disappointment wearing a mask.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, “he wasn’t cynical — he was observant. Humor like his doesn’t come from bitterness; it comes from clarity. He saw how people talk about love as if it’s sacred, when it’s really fragile. Like pastry.”

Jack: “And sweet until it spoils,” Jack murmured.

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The last candle sputtered, casting long, playful shadows across their faces.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “maybe what Thurber meant wasn’t that marriage is dangerous — but that it’s powerful. The kind of power that transforms. Food nourishes or poisons, depending on how it’s made. Marriage’s the same.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not the cake,” she said, “it’s the ingredients.”

Jack: “Right,” he said. “And the baker.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the sound honest and human.

Jeeny: “Still,” she said, “there’s truth in the warning. People rush into love the way they rush into dessert — starved, dazzled, convinced it’ll fix the hunger.”

Jack: “And then?”

Jeeny: “Then they realize sweetness doesn’t last forever. You have to choose to keep tasting.”

Host: Jack tilted his head, studying her. “So you still believe in love?”

Jeeny: “Of course,” she said. “But not the fairy-tale kind. Love isn’t eternal bliss. It’s survival through imperfection. It’s burning the cake one year and baking it better the next.”

Jack: “That’s… unromantic,” he said.

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “That’s devotion. Romance is the icing. Love is the effort.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, steady as a heartbeat.

Jack: “You think Thurber ever married?” he asked.

Jeeny: “Twice,” she said. “So clearly, he believed enough to risk indigestion again.”

Jack: “Brave man.”

Jeeny: “Or foolish,” she said. “But maybe that’s the point — you can’t tell the difference when you’re in love. You only find out afterward whether you were fed or fooled.”

Host: The waiter returned briefly, placing a small box on their table. Inside, wrapped in paper, was the last piece of wedding cake left from a reception earlier that evening.

Jack: “Fate,” he said. “Or irony.”

Jeeny: “Or dessert,” she said, smiling.

Jack: “You dare me to try it?”

Jeeny: “Only if you understand the metaphor.”

Jack: “That it might kill me?”

Jeeny: “That it might change you.”

Host: He broke the cake in half, offering her a piece. The frosting gleamed white as confession.

Jack: “To love,” he said.

Jeeny: “To appetite,” she replied.

Host: They ate in silence — the act both absurd and sacred. The sweetness clung to their tongues, heavy with memory and meaning.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “Thurber wasn’t warning against marriage. He was warning against forgetting what it tastes like.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Against mistaking ritual for intimacy. Against thinking the ceremony is the meal.”

Jack: “So the real danger,” he said, “isn’t the cake.”

Jeeny: “It’s thinking you’re full after the first bite.”

Host: The lights flickered as the restaurant closed around them, but neither moved. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed and shining.

Host: On the table, James Thurber’s words gleamed faintly beside the crumbs of the cake, the perfect blend of wit and wisdom:

“The most dangerous food is wedding cake.”

Host: And as the camera pulled back, leaving them framed in golden light — the last two souls in a world still hungry for meaning — the truth revealed itself quietly, almost tenderly:

Host: Because love, like food, is both nourishment and risk. It feeds, it scars, it satisfies, it starves — and yet, despite knowing all this, we still take a bite. That’s what makes us human.