There are people still in the Republican Party that I believe

Host: The city was drenched in the orange glow of a setting sun, the kind that bleeds across the sky and turns every window into a burning mirror. The faint hum of traffic rolled through the streets, mingling with the distant cry of a train.

In a dimly lit studio café on the edge of downtown, cameras sat unused, their red lights off, their lenses staring blankly like tired eyes. Jack sat by the counter, his coat hanging loosely over one shoulder, a cup of cold coffee before him. Jeeny stood near the window, her reflection merging with the flicker of passing cars, her expression thoughtful, almost sorrowful.

The TV behind them murmured a rerun of an old political interview. The voice of Frank Luntz echoed faintly through the air: “There are people still in the Republican Party that I believe practice the communication of anger, of disappointment, of regret, of pain, of sorrow, of suffering. That's not what the American people want to hear.”

Jeeny: “Do you hear that, Jack? He said people are tired of anger — tired of pain being used as a language.”

Host: Jack looked up, the light catching in his grey eyes, turning them almost silver. He gave a quiet, tired laugh — the kind that sounds more like a sigh than amusement.

Jack: “People say they’re tired of anger, Jeeny. But that’s not true. Anger sells. It moves elections, fills screens, fuels clicks. It’s the only emotion people still seem to believe in.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the easiest emotion — that’s why it spreads so fast. People cling to anger because it makes them feel alive when they’re afraid to feel anything else.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned. The reflection of a neon sign — “Open Late” — pulsed red across her face, like a heartbeat.

Jack: “You sound like one of those optimism campaigns,” he muttered, half-smiling. “But have you looked around lately? Every conversation is an argument. Every post, a battle. The whole country is shouting, and no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Luntz said what he did. We’ve turned politics into performance art for the wounded. Everyone’s bleeding, and everyone wants their pain televised.”

Host: The clock above the door ticked steadily — each second loud in the growing silence. Outside, a group of young people passed by, their laughter echoing faintly through the glass.

Jack: “So what do you want? Polite lies? Smiles over wounds? People need to express pain, Jeeny — it’s honest. Anger is honest.”

Jeeny: “Honest, yes. But is it healing?”

Host: The question hung in the air like smoke. Jack’s fingers drummed against his cup, his brow furrowed.

Jack: “You can’t heal what you don’t acknowledge. Every revolution, every reform started with anger. Without it, there’s no movement. Without it, complacency rules.”

Jeeny: “But revolutions also burn down what they love,” she replied quietly. “And they forget how to build again. Anger without compassion isn’t progress, it’s erosion.”

Host: The lights above them flickered — a soft hum filling the space. The barista had gone home. It was just them now — two voices in an empty room, wrestling with the ghosts of a nation’s rhetoric.

Jack: “You think compassion will fix this?” he asked, his tone sharp but not cruel. “You think empathy wins debates? The world doesn’t reward softness. It rewards dominance.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the sickness,” she said. “That we think every conversation has to be won.”

Host: The sound of a passing ambulance cut through the night, its siren rising like a mechanical wail — urgent, distant, dying away.

Jeeny: “Anger is easy to perform,” she continued, “but it’s hard to carry. Look at what it’s done — to families, to neighbors, to us. Everyone’s so busy shouting ‘I’m hurt!’ that they’ve forgotten to ask, ‘Are you hurting too?’”

Jack: “That’s sentimental,” he snapped, though his voice softened at the end. “You think understanding pain will stop it? You think sorrow goes away just because we stop talking about it?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “But we can stop weaponizing it.”

Host: A moment of stillness. The steam from her forgotten coffee had vanished, leaving only a faint ring on the table — a small halo of warmth gone cold.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But anger is all we have left, Jeeny. It’s the last language people share. Everyone understands it.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, turning toward him. “And that’s the tragedy.”

Host: Her eyes were soft now, but heavy, like a sky before rain. Jack didn’t answer. His fingers stilled. He looked down, studying the faint tremor in his hands.

Jeeny: “When I was a child,” she began slowly, “my mother told me that pain was a teacher — but not a home. I think America built a home out of its pain, Jack. And now, no one knows how to leave.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s that complicated.”

Host: A faint wind brushed through the half-open door, stirring a few napkins on the counter. The city lights outside flickered, like distant fires.

Jack: “People need to feel heard, Jeeny. That’s what anger is. A cry for attention. If leaders stopped pretending everything was fine, maybe the shouting would stop.”

Jeeny: “Luntz didn’t say people should pretend. He said they don’t want to hear anger. They want to hear healing. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think anyone listens to calm voices anymore? You think peace goes viral?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But peace endures. Anger burns fast and bright, but it leaves ashes. Always ashes.”

Host: Her words drifted through the room like slow smoke, wrapping around the stillness. Jack looked up again, and this time, there was something like weariness — or surrender — in his eyes.

Jack: “You always talk like a poet when the world’s on fire.”

Jeeny: “And you always talk like a realist trying to convince himself the fire feels warm.”

Host: He smiled — small, rueful, but real. The tension in the air eased just slightly. Outside, the last light of the sunset disappeared, leaving behind only the neon glow of the café sign and the faint silver reflection of the moon.

Jack: “So what do the American people want to hear, then?”

Jeeny: “The truth. But not the kind that wounds. The kind that heals.”

Jack: “That sounds impossible.”

Jeeny: “So does forgiveness. But we’ve done that before, haven’t we? After wars, after loss, after every time we’ve broken each other.”

Host: He nodded slowly, his eyes tracing the lines of her face — not as an opponent anymore, but as someone who carried a truth too painful to dismiss.

Jack: “You think the world can change its tone?”

Jeeny: “It already is, in small ways. A teacher choosing gentleness. A leader choosing restraint. A parent teaching their child that silence isn’t defeat — it’s space for listening.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that felt earned, not empty. The city outside hummed quietly, and for the first time all evening, the air felt lighter.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe anger got us here… but it can’t take us further.”

Jeeny: “It can’t. Because progress isn’t built on shouting — it’s built on listening.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting gently over his. The camera, if there were one, would have caught the faint shimmer of the streetlight on their joined hands, the quiet defiance of connection in a world addicted to division.

Outside, the neon sign flickered once more — “Open Late” — as if whispering a reminder that even in the dark, doors can stay open.

Jack exhaled.

Jack: “So maybe what people really want…”

Jeeny: “…is to stop hurting.”

Host: The music faded back in — a slow, hopeful tune. The rain began again, soft and rhythmic, cleansing the streets below.

As they sat there, watching the world blur through the window, it was clear — neither had won the argument, but both had found something better.

Not victory.
Not certainty.
But understanding.

And in that quiet understanding, the anger of the world — for just a moment — seemed to fall silent.