Ugliness is in a way superior to beauty because it lasts.

Host: The night was wet and flickering, the kind of urban twilight that hummed with neon melancholy. A thin rain slid down the windows of an old bar tucked in a forgotten alley, where the city’s heartbeat slowed into a kind of tired jazz rhythm.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke, music, and a faint smell of cheap perfume. The walls wore their age like a second skin, peeling and yellowed, but still somehow alive.

Jack sat at the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber light carving his face into sharp planes. His grey eyes were distant, reflecting the dim glow of the jukebox as it murmured an old Serge Gainsbourg tune. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the counter, her black hair still damp from the rain, her brown eyes watching him with that soft, unwavering intensity that always cut through his cynicism.

The quote hung between them — “Ugliness is in a way superior to beauty because it lasts.” — like smoke that refused to fade.

Jeeny: “He was half right, I suppose. But it’s such a sad way to see the world, isn’t it? To think only the ugly survives.”

Jack: “It’s not sad, it’s honest. Beauty is a moment, Jeeny. It flashes, then rots. But ugliness — it stays. It etches itself into time. That’s why we remember it.”

Host: The bartender wiped a glass slowly, as if afraid to interrupt. The rain outside thickened, tapping against the windowpane like a distant metronome keeping time for their conversation.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like decay is some kind of virtue. Just because something lasts doesn’t mean it matters.”

Jack: “But it does. Beauty demands perfection, and perfection never endures. Think of the Parthenon, Jeeny — it’s the cracks, the ruins, the missing columns that make it real. That’s what gives it soul.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying brokenness is better than grace?”

Jack: “I’m saying it’s truer. Grace is just the mask we put on before the fall.”

Host: A bus rumbled by outside, its headlights briefly flooding the room in pale gold, making the dust in the air shimmer like tiny, forgotten stars. Then it was gone, and the shadows returned, thick and intimate.

Jeeny: “You always find truth in the ruins, Jack. But maybe that’s because you’re afraid of what’s still whole. Beauty doesn’t last — but while it’s here, it moves us, changes us. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack: “It’s not enough if it’s a lie. People chase beauty like it’s salvation, but it’s just another form of death — slower, more polished.”

Jeeny: “And what about love? When a mother holds her child, when someone paints a sunset, when you look at someone and for a second you forget the world — are those lies, too?”

Jack: “They’re illusions. Necessary ones, maybe, but illusions all the same. Gainsbourg knew it. He lived it. He saw how beauty burns — and how ugliness remains, smoking in the ashes.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered, reflecting the faint red glow of the neon sign above them. She turned slightly, gazing at the mirror behind the bar, where her own reflection shimmered next to Jack’s — two faces, both marked by time, both beautiful and flawed in different ways.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly what makes beauty so precious? That it dies? Like cherry blossoms — they fall because they’re supposed to. Ephemerality is what gives it meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t come from dying; it comes from enduring. A scar tells a story that a flower never could.”

Jeeny: “A scar tells a story of pain, Jack. But a flower tells us that life still blooms despite it.”

Jack: “And then it wilts.”

Jeeny: “Yes — but it blooms again. That’s the part you always forget.”

Host: The rain softened now, turning into a mist, like the city had begun to breathe again. The music in the bar changed — a slower melody, all bass and smoke, curling around their words like a quiet confession.

Jack: “You think I’m too harsh, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re too afraid. You cling to ugliness because it never leaves you. It’s safe — it won’t disappoint you the way beauty does.”

Jack: “Maybe. But at least it’s real. Beauty demands we forget what’s beneath it. Ugliness doesn’t lie. It stays, it stares back.”

Jeeny: “That’s why you admire it — it reflects you.”

Jack: “And you? You chase light, even when it blinds you.”

Jeeny: “Because I’d rather be blinded by light than comfortable in darkness.”

Host: The tension between them had become something electric, a quiet charge suspended in the smoky air. The clock above the bar ticked toward midnight, each second falling like a soft hammer on the edge of their hearts.

Jack: “So what’s your version of it then? What lasts, if not ugliness?”

Jeeny: “Kindness. Courage. Memory. They’re not always pretty, but they last longer than faces and mirrors.”

Jack: “And yet they all fade too. Even memories turn to ghosts.”

Jeeny: “But they don’t vanish. They linger, Jack — like the scent of perfume, or the echo of a song you can’t forget. That’s beauty too. Just a quieter kind.”

Host: Jack sighed, a deep sound that carried both resignation and relief. His hand tightened around the glass, then slowly set it down. The liquid caught the light — a fleeting glimmer, like a flame about to go out.

Jack: “Maybe Gainsbourg wasn’t talking about ugliness as we think of it. Maybe he meant the kind that stays — the imperfection that defines us. The wrinkles, the cracks, the mess of being human.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe beauty isn’t the opposite of ugliness. Maybe it’s just temporary truth, and ugliness is what remains when the truth is over.”

Jack: “That’s… almost poetic.”

Jeeny: “Almost?”

Jack: “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound small but sincere, breaking the heavy silence that had pressed against the walls. The rain had stopped now, and the city outside was glistening, every puddle holding the reflection of a neon heart still beating.

Jeeny reached for her coat, her smile soft and tired, yet alive.

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth is, we need both. The ugly to endure, the beautiful to remind us why it’s worth enduring at all.”

Jack: “So we keep both. The scar and the flower.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. One remembers, the other forgives.”

Host: As they stepped into the night, the streetlight broke the rain into shards of silver, catching on their faces. Jack’s breath clouded in the cold air, Jeeny’s eyes glowed faintly with the reflection of the city’s lights — one world-worn, one still burning.

Behind them, the bar door closed with a gentle thud, and the music inside carried on — a slow melody about love, loss, and all that is both ugly and beautiful enough to last.

And in that moment, under the trembling neon glow, even ugliness seemed to shine.