There was never an angry man that thought his anger unjust.

Host: The rain was falling — not hard, but steady — that kind of gentle drizzle that turns streetlights into halos and reflections into paintings. The café window glowed with warm amber light against the gray evening. Inside, the hum of quiet conversation mingled with the faint sound of jazz drifting from an old speaker.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. His grey eyes were distant, following the raindrops as they traced crooked paths down the glass. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea — slowly, rhythmically — the spoon tapping against the cup like a clock counting silence.

Jeeny: “Saint Francis de Sales once said, ‘There was never an angry man that thought his anger unjust.’”

Jack: smirks faintly, voice low “He wasn’t wrong. Nobody thinks they’re the villain when they’re shouting. Anger always comes wearing a halo.”

Host: The light flickered slightly, making the rain outside shimmer like static. The air between them was thick with thought — the kind that carries both weight and warmth.

Jeeny: “That’s what fascinates me about anger — how it convinces you it’s righteous. Every tyrant, every lover, every protestor, every betrayed friend — they all believe their fire is holy.”

Jack: grinning bitterly “Yeah, because in the moment, it is. Anger feels like justice when the wound is fresh. It’s the only thing that makes sense when reason feels like betrayal.”

Jeeny: quietly “But it blinds, too. That’s what Francis meant. He wasn’t condemning anger — just warning us how seductive it is. We wrap it in logic, justify it with memory, and call it moral.”

Host: The sound of the rain deepened, a soft percussion against the windowpane. The street outside glowed — neon signs bleeding into puddles, cars slicing through reflections. Jack leaned back in his chair, his expression turning inward.

Jack: “You ever been angry, Jeeny? Like, really angry? The kind that doesn’t just live in your chest but takes up residence — like it’s paying rent in your ribs?”

Jeeny: nodding slowly “Yes. Anger born from silence. From watching something unjust and feeling powerless. That’s the kind that stays.”

Jack: “And did it feel unjust then?”

Jeeny: “No. It felt necessary. It felt like truth.”

Jack: “Exactly. That’s what he’s saying. Nobody feels wrong when they’re burning.”

Host: The steam from the cups curled upward, fading into the dim light. The waitress passed by, her steps quiet on the tile, the smell of baked bread trailing after her.

Jeeny: “But anger’s dangerous because it pretends to be clarity. It makes the world black and white. You’re right, they’re wrong. You’re pure, they’re corrupt. It simplifies what was never simple.”

Jack: half-laughing, bitterly “Maybe that’s why we love it. Anger’s the only emotion that makes life easy. You don’t have to understand anyone — you just have to hate them.”

Jeeny: softly, eyes down “Until the fire cools, and you’re left holding ashes you thought were armor.”

Host: The music shifted — an old piano tune, slow, nostalgic. Jack ran his thumb along the edge of his coffee cup, as though measuring the line between reflection and regret.

Jack: “You know, I used to think anger made me strong. Every time someone hurt me, I’d build a wall out of it. Brick by brick, rage by rage. It kept me safe.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: pauses, voice low “Now I realize I built a prison instead of a fortress.”

Jeeny: “That’s the danger of righteous anger. It makes you mistake isolation for integrity.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes lifted — deep, brown, calm, cutting through his words like a steady light through fog.

Jeeny: “But anger isn’t evil, Jack. It’s just energy — raw, unfiltered truth. The question is what you do with it. Saint Francis wasn’t telling us not to feel it. He was reminding us to doubt it. To pause before we let it decide what’s right.”

Jack: nodding slowly “To ask whether we’re serving justice or just nursing the wound.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Most people don’t want healing. They want victory.”

Jack: “And victory feels holy, even when it’s cruel.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, the sound like applause against the glass. The city blurred behind it — a watercolor of motion and shadow.

Jeeny: “Think about it — wars start this way. Families split. Lovers stop speaking. All because someone’s anger told them they were pure.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure? Forgiveness?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “No. Awareness. Forgiveness comes later. Awareness comes first — the moment you realize your anger isn’t the voice of truth, it’s the echo of pain.”

Host: The café had emptied now, the last few customers leaving behind empty plates and the smell of espresso. Outside, the streetlamps flickered in rhythm with the rain, small beacons in the dark.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I was younger, I thought anger made me alive. Now it just makes me tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s wisdom, Jack. Anger burns bright, but peace burns long. One consumes; the other sustains.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting lightly near his. He didn’t move it, didn’t look away. The quiet between them wasn’t silence anymore — it was understanding.

Jeeny: “Every angry man thinks he’s right. But the ones who grow — they learn to ask, ‘What if I’m not?’ That question alone can save a life.”

Jack: softly “Or a world.”

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle, the last few drops sliding down the glass like sentences ending in ellipses. Jack finished his coffee, finally cold, and stood. Jeeny followed, wrapping her scarf, her smile small but genuine.

They stepped outside — into the glistening night, the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement like liquid fire.

And as they walked into the rain, Saint Francis de Sales’s words seemed to echo beneath their footsteps —

that anger always believes itself righteous,
that the flame never questions its own heat,
and that wisdom begins not in fury,
but in the first quiet moment
you dare to doubt your own rage.

Host: Because understanding begins
the second you stop defending your anger
and start listening
to what’s buried beneath it.

And in that quiet —
that trembling, honest quiet —
something fragile and amazing is born:
peace.