What is food to one man is bitter poison to others.

Host: The sky above the harbor was painted in hues of rust and blue, the last light of dusk spilling over the water like liquid fire. The restaurant by the pier—“The Glass Current”—was nearly empty now. Candles flickered in their holders, bending in the quiet wind that slipped through the half-open windows.

At a corner table, near the reflection of the moonlight rippling across the waves, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. The remains of dinner—a half-eaten plate of seafood, an untouched glass of wine, and a bowl of something unidentifiable—lay between them.

Jack’s grey eyes were sharp, studying the candle’s flame as though it might answer something deeper than words. Jeeny, hands wrapped around her cup of tea, looked out at the sea, her profile bathed in silver light.

The world felt still enough to breathe in its own thoughts.

Jeeny: (softly, as though reciting a sacred text) “Lucretius once said, ‘What is food to one man is bitter poison to others.’”

(She looked back at him, her gaze steady.) “I’ve always loved that line. It’s not just about food, you know—it’s about truth, desire, even love.”

Jack: (a dry laugh escapes him) “Or it’s about taste, Jeeny. About preference. Not everything needs to be a metaphor.”

Jeeny: “But it is, Jack. Everything is. Think about it—what nourishes you might destroy someone else. That’s more than taste. That’s philosophy.”

Host: The wind moved through the restaurant, brushing against the linen curtains. Candles trembled. Jack’s face, half in shadow, carried the weary tension of a man always balancing logic against something softer, something human.

Jack: “You’re saying truth is relative. That morality is just seasoning—different for every palate.”

Jeeny: “I’m saying perception shapes everything. The same world can taste sweet or bitter depending on who you are, what you’ve lived, what’s broken in you.”

Jack: (scoffing) “So we stop judging altogether? Every act, every choice justified by taste? That’s chaos. That’s moral anemia.”

Jeeny: (calmly) “No. It’s empathy. It’s understanding that what looks like poison to you might be someone’s only cure.”

Host: The sea beyond the window shifted, waves whispering against the rocks, as if the world itself leaned closer to listen.

Jack: “Give me an example.”

Jeeny: “Love.”

Jack: (arching an eyebrow) “Predictable.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But true. Love feeds some people—it gives them meaning, warmth, stability. To others, it’s addiction. It consumes them, ruins them. Same emotion, different stomachs.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s not love that changes—maybe it’s the people who can’t handle it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And who decides what ‘handling it’ means? You? Society? The priest? We keep trying to prescribe the same medicine to every soul and act surprised when it kills half of them.”

Host: A boat horn echoed faintly in the distance. The candle flame flickered, then steadied.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but let’s not forget—poison is still poison. We can romanticize it all we want, but consequences don’t care about feelings. Cyanide doesn’t ask about your worldview.”

Jeeny: (leaning forward, her voice deepening) “And yet what is medicine if not poison in the right dose? The same plant can heal or kill depending on the hand that brews it.”

Host: A spark of tension lit between them—quiet, deliberate, inevitable. The air grew heavier, filled with the scent of salt and memory.

Jack: “You mean intention redeems consequence?”

Jeeny: “Not redeems—redefines. The heart doesn’t measure in results, Jack. It measures in meaning.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “Meaning doesn’t save you when you’re wrong. History’s full of people who thought they were feeding humanity and ended up poisoning it. Stalin believed he was curing society. Crusaders thought they were saving souls. Every atrocity is a feast served in the name of good intentions.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes darkened; a faint tremor crossed her hand as she set her cup down. The sound of porcelain on wood rang soft and sharp in the room.

Jeeny: “You always turn the human heart into a courtroom. Yes—some poisons masquerade as food. But isn’t that the point Lucretius made? The danger lies not just in what we consume, but in our blindness to how it affects others. The same word that heals one person can haunt another for life.”

Jack: (voice low) “You think the world needs more tenderness. I think it needs more discernment.”

Jeeny: “And I think discernment without tenderness becomes cruelty disguised as clarity.”

Host: The conversation burned quietly now, the way embers glow long after the flame dies. The rain had begun again, light at first, then steadier, tapping the glass in rhythmic confession.

Jack: “You ever notice how easily people swallow lies when they taste sweet? Politicians, lovers, dreamers—we all eat what we crave and call it truth. That’s how poison spreads.”

Jeeny: “And yet lies aren’t always toxic. Sometimes they’re mercy. When you tell a dying child he’ll get better, is that poison? Or food for the soul?”

Jack: (pauses, his voice softer now) “Depends on the child. And the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Context. Taste. The world isn’t binary, Jack—it’s a table of endless dishes, each made of both hunger and fear.”

Host: The rain blurred the harbor lights into a watercolor of gold and blue. Jack leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders finally breaking into a sigh.

Jack: “You know, Lucretius was trying to describe nature’s duality—how everything that gives life carries death inside it. But you’ve turned it into morality.”

Jeeny: “Morality is nature, Jack. We just pretend it’s cleaner.”

Host: For a moment, the room was silent but alive—the distant waves, the rain, the faint creak of wooden beams. Jeeny’s eyes caught the candlelight, shimmering with that fierce tenderness that always both infuriated and disarmed him.

Jack: “You think everything can be forgiven, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “No. But I think everything can be understood.”

Host: The storm outside swelled, the sea now dark and wild. Jack stood and walked toward the window, watching the lightning flash against the horizon. His reflection looked back at him—a man divided between reason and regret.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? We’re both talking about poison while eating seafood in a city that dumps chemicals into the ocean. Maybe Lucretius was just laughing at human blindness all along.”

Jeeny: (rising slowly) “Maybe. But he was also reminding us that every act of consumption—of food, of love, of belief—demands awareness. The tragedy isn’t in the poison; it’s in not recognizing which one you’ve chosen.”

Host: She stepped beside him, their faces both reflected in the window, two blurred shapes outlined by the fractured light of the city.

Jack: (softly) “So what do we do? Stop tasting the world altogether?”

Jeeny: “No. We taste carefully. We learn our poisons. And we forgive the ones who can’t stomach what we love.”

Host: Outside, the rain slowed, and a faint moon broke through the clouds. The harbor water gleamed like liquid glass. Jack turned to her, his expression caught between defiance and understanding.

Jack: “You really think empathy is the antidote?”

Jeeny: “Not empathy. Awareness. Empathy without awareness just feeds more poison.”

Host: The candle guttered, then steadied again, the flame dancing stubbornly against the wind. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Jack reached for his glass, raised it slightly, and looked at her through the thin veil of smoke.

Jack: “To awareness, then. And to taste.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “To knowing that what nourishes us might burn someone else—and still daring to share the table.”

Host: They drank in silence. Outside, the tide came in, washing the shore clean. The last light of the candle flickered, reflecting once in their eyes before going out, leaving only the faint glow of the sea—alive, mercurial, full of both sweetness and poison.

Host: “And in that quiet darkness, Lucretius’ truth lingered—not as warning, but as wonder: that the same world that feeds us can also undo us, and that perhaps, in knowing that, we learn how to taste life more gently.”