Unpleasant reading on the subject of anger tells us that there's

Host: The rain came down in sheets against the glass, drumming a steady, relentless rhythm that filled the room like unspoken tension. The bar was nearly empty — a few scattered souls hunched over their drinks, the dim light catching only fragments of faces, fragments of truths.

At the far end, Jack sat, a half-finished whiskey before him, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass in slow, absent circles. Across from him sat Jeeny, her coat still damp, her hair curling slightly from the moisture. Between them, a kind of silence that wasn’t awkward — just dangerous. The kind that waits for something to break.

Outside, a neon sign flickered: OPEN — though it felt like everything inside them was closing.

Jeeny: (quietly) “You’ve been angry all night.”

Jack: (without looking up) “I’ve been awake all night.”

Jeeny: “That’s not an answer.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Neither’s your question.”

Host: His voice was low, almost gentle — but the gentleness carried an edge, like a dull blade that still knows how to cut. Jeeny watched him carefully, her eyes narrowing, not in judgment but in empathy’s difficult form: understanding.

Jeeny: “You think you’re hiding it well, but you’re not. You’re burning, Jack.”

Jack: “So what? Maybe I need to. Dick Cavett once said, ‘Unpleasant reading on the subject of anger tells us that there’s not really anything wrong with it. In limited amounts. It can even be a good thing. A pressure valve.’ Maybe that’s what this is — me letting off steam.”

Jeeny: “That’s not steam, Jack. That’s smoke. And you’re choking on it.”

Host: The bartender passed behind them, placing another glass on the counter with a soft clink. The sound echoed in the space between them — small, but sharp.

Jack’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes, grey and storming, stayed fixed on the melting ice in his drink.

Jack: “You ever notice how everyone says anger’s bad — until they need it? Until it’s theirs? I’ve seen anger save people, Jeeny. It pushes them to fight back, to move, to change something.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen it destroy them. You can’t hold fire and not expect to burn.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Sometimes the world needs to burn before it learns. You think justice ever came from peace? Anger built every revolution we’ve ever had.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But so did control. Without control, anger’s just chaos.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, rattling the windows like impatient hands. The light outside pulsed faintly, red then white, like the rhythm of a beating heart.

Jeeny’s fingers drummed against the table. Jack’s shoulders tensed. The storm outside had found its echo in them.

Jeeny: “What are you really angry about, Jack?”

Jack: (laughs darkly) “Everything. The layoffs. The lies. The way people pretend everything’s fine while it’s all falling apart.”

Jeeny: “You’re angry because you care. But you’re mistaking care for rage. They’re not the same thing.”

Jack: (snapping) “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Then stop making it so easy.”

Host: The words hit, clean and precise, like a well-thrown stone. Jack looked at her — really looked. His eyes softened, but only slightly.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The tension began to shift — not gone, just redirected.

Jack: (quieter) “You ever get tired of pretending to stay calm? I mean really tired. Like every polite smile is a betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I’ve learned that anger’s only useful when it builds something — not when it breaks everything.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a man trying to justify his self-destruction.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights further; the room seemed to shrink around them. A small candle on their table flickered wildly in the draft, its flame bending but not breaking.

Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jack: “You ever notice how anger makes you feel alive?”

Jeeny: “So does pain. That doesn’t mean you should chase it.”

Jack: “You don’t understand. When you’re numb for so long, even pain feels like a pulse.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe you need to find a new heartbeat.”

Host: The flame steadied. The rain softened, though the storm inside them hadn’t. There was a pause — a long one — as if both were standing at the edge of some truth neither wanted to face first.

Finally, Jack leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

Jack: “You know, Cavett was right. Anger’s not evil. It’s a valve. You close it too tight, you explode. You open it too much, you bleed out. I guess I’ve been bleeding for a while.”

Jeeny: “Then stop bleeding on everyone else. Let it out where it can do good.”

Jack: “And where’s that?”

Jeeny: “Anywhere that builds instead of destroys. Write it. Work it. Scream it if you have to. But don’t drown in it.”

Host: She reached out, her hand resting on his — not to comfort, but to anchor. Jack didn’t pull away. His breathing slowed. The storm had quieted just enough to let them both breathe.

Jeeny: “Anger’s just energy, Jack. It’s not your enemy until you let it run the show.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s possible.”

Host: Her hand stayed there, steady. Jack turned his palm upward, fingers curling around hers, his expression finally softening into something human — not calm, not happy, but real.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe anger’s like fire — useful, beautiful even, when it’s controlled. But when it spreads…”

Jeeny: “It consumes everything — even the ones trying to keep warm.”

Host: A long silence settled again — softer now, like the quiet after a storm. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper. The neon light flickered one last time before going out, leaving only the small flame between them, steady and alive.

Jeeny took her hand back, stood, and reached for her coat. Jack watched her, his eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: (gently) “Anger isn’t wrong, Jack. It’s just loud. Learn when to let it speak — and when to make it listen.”

Jack: (nodding) “Guess that’s the hard part.”

Jeeny: “The only part that matters.”

Host: She walked toward the door, her reflection flashing briefly in the window, framed by the dim city lights. Jack stayed behind, watching the last trail of her shadow disappear into the night.

He looked at the candle, then exhaled slowly and snuffed it out with his fingertips — a small act of control, of choice.

For a moment, there was darkness. Then, from outside, a faint streak of lightning illuminated the glass — just for a second — enough to show his face, softer now, more resolved.

Host: Because anger, like thunder, was never meant to be constant. It was meant to clear the air. And for the first time in a long while, the air felt clean.