When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear.

Host: The rain had been falling since noon, soaking the city in a rhythm that felt both relentless and forgiving. Steam rose from the pavement, curling around the feet of passersby as if the ground itself were exhaling. In a small corner diner, the kind that always smells faintly of coffee, grease, and regret, two figures sat opposite each other in a booth by the window.

Neon from the sign outside flashed red-blue-red, washing their faces in alternating tones of calm and agitation.

Jack sat slouched, his jaw tight, one hand curled around a chipped mug, the other tapping restlessly on the table. His grey eyes were heavy with something unsaid. Jeeny sat across from him, posture straight, hair damp from the rain, her expression equal parts concern and quiet defiance.

Between them, a napkin bore a hastily scribbled quote — “When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear.” — Mark Twain.

Jeeny: “You picked the quote this time. I expected something… darker.”

Jack: “It’s not dark. It’s honest. Twain just said out loud what everyone does in their head.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying he’s justifying anger?”

Jack: “No. He’s humanizing it. Everyone loves to talk about controlling anger — breathe, meditate, count. But sometimes, Jeeny, the world deserves a good curse word.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, tracing the rim of her coffee cup. The rain thudded harder against the window, as if echoing Jack’s words.

Jeeny: “I don’t disagree with honesty. But you mistake venting for wisdom. Anger’s a match, Jack. It can light a candle — or burn down a house.”

Jack: “Sometimes the damn house needs to burn.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost steady, but it carried an old fire — the kind born from years of swallowing fury.

Jeeny: “That sounds like justification again. You’re too smart for that.”

Jack: “You ever watch someone get humiliated, and you stand there, polite and patient, counting to four while your gut twists? I’ve done the counting, Jeeny. It just makes you angrier. Sometimes words are all you’ve got left before you explode.”

Jeeny: “Exploding doesn’t make you strong, Jack. It just makes you loud.”

Jack: “Tell that to every revolution that ever happened.”

Host: The diner’s old fluorescent light flickered above them. Somewhere behind the counter, a cook dropped a pan, the sharp clang punctuating the silence like a gunshot.

Jeeny: “You’re comparing your temper to revolution?”

Jack: “Why not? You think change comes from calm people? Gandhi, maybe. But the rest? They were angry. They didn’t just count to four — they roared.”

Jeeny: “And how many lives did that roar destroy along the way?”

Jack: “And how many would’ve been lost if they’d stayed silent?”

Host: The tension thickened, as palpable as the steam rising from their untouched plates. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes searching his.

Jeeny: “You talk about anger like it’s sacred.”

Jack: “It is. In doses. It’s what keeps you alive when you’ve been beaten down. It’s what tells you something’s wrong.”

Jeeny: “And what tells you when to stop?”

Jack: “Instinct.”

Jeeny: “Instinct fails when pride speaks louder.”

Jack: “Better pride than submission.”

Host: Her jaw tightened. The rain outside had slowed, turning from a storm to a steady whisper. A car passed, headlights cutting through the glass, painting them both in ghostly gold.

Jeeny: “You know what Twain really meant, don’t you? It wasn’t about letting anger out. It was about not pretending you’re above it. He was mocking the human habit of restraint — not endorsing rage.”

Jack: “You think humor excuses truth? He meant it literally. Count to four if you can — and if you can’t, swear. Be human.”

Jeeny: “Being human isn’t the same as being careless.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But it’s better than being hollow.”

Host: He pushed his cup aside, the coffee sloshing, dark liquid spilling over the rim. Jeeny watched the stain spread across the napkin, bleeding into the quote.

Jeeny: “Do you know what happens when you keep swearing at everything, Jack? Eventually, the world stops listening. Your anger becomes white noise.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s the world that’s deaf.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s you that’s shouting too loud to hear.”

Host: Her words hung like smoke. The neon light flickered once more — red-blue-red. The air between them had shifted.

Jack: “You ever notice how calm people always sound like they’re winning? Like their peace is proof they’re better than the rest of us?”

Jeeny: “No. True calm isn’t superiority — it’s survival. Counting to four isn’t cowardice. It’s the space between thought and destruction.”

Jack: “And swearing?”

Jeeny: “Release — if it stops there. But most people don’t stop. They keep swearing — in words, in actions, in silence. And that’s when anger turns into poison.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes softening. For the first time that evening, he seemed less a man arguing, and more a man confessing.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to shout at everything — the weather, the news, his boss. I told myself I’d never be like him. But these days… I see him every time I look in the mirror.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fate, Jack. That’s a warning.”

Jack: “Counting to four doesn’t erase ghosts.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives you time to see them clearly.”

Host: The diner grew quiet. The rain outside finally stopped. The neon light reflected off the window like a pulse — slow, steady, alive.

Jack: “You think I can unlearn it? The anger?”

Jeeny: “Not unlearn. Transform. Every time you stop, breathe, wait — you teach your anger a new language.”

Jack: “And if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then swear. Once. Loud. Real. Then stop. Don’t let it become your prayer.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped him, small but genuine — the first sound of warmth all evening.

Jack: “You’re quoting Twain back at me.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m quoting you — the version of you that still wants to be better.”

Jack: “He’s been quiet lately.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe tonight’s the night he learns to count again.”

Host: The waitress arrived, refilling their cups with a half-smile. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of rain and iron. Outside, the city began to shimmer — puddles reflecting the broken neon, like little pieces of color holding the night together.

Jack: “So you’re saying the secret to peace is arithmetic.”

Jeeny: “Four seconds of grace. That’s all any of us get.”

Jack: “And if that fails…”

Jeeny: “Swear. Laugh. Forgive. Then start over.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, as if the idea itself had weight. He looked at the rain-streaked window, at the world still humming, imperfect, alive.

Jack: “You ever think Twain was laughing at us all along? Watching us fight our tempers like children fighting shadows?”

Jeeny: “Of course he was. But laughter’s just another kind of wisdom — softer, but no less true.”

Host: Outside, a car horn blared, someone shouted, and life went on. Inside the diner, the two sat in the calm that follows recognition — the kind that feels like a truce between the mind and the heart.

Jack: “Count to four…”

Jeeny: “…swear if you must.”

Jack: “And maybe pray after.”

Jeeny: “Only if you mean it.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, sincerely. The sound mingled with the patter of rain returning, light now, forgiving.

The camera would pan outward — the diner glowing like a warm heartbeat in the middle of a wet city. Two figures framed in flickering light, the world rushing around them.

And over it all, the lingering echo of Twain’s mischievous wisdom — that sometimes, between counting and cursing, lies the fragile art of being human.