When angry count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to

Host: The diner sat at the edge of the highway, bathed in the dim glow of a single neon sign that blinked red and blue, bleeding light into the rain-slick asphalt. The night was long, the kind that hums softly with tired dreams and bad coffee. Inside, the air smelled of fried onions, grease, and lonely conversations that never quite reached resolution.

The clock over the counter ticked with lazy persistence — 11:47 p.m.

At a corner booth, Jack sat staring into his cup, his hands clasped, his jaw tight. The faint tremor in his fingers betrayed the storm beneath the stillness. Jeeny sat opposite, her posture calm, her eyes steady on him — the kind of gaze that doesn’t demand confession but silently invites it.

Between them lay a napkin with a quote scribbled in blue ink, written in Jeeny’s careful, looping handwriting:

"When angry, count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to one hundred." — Thomas Jefferson

Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, counting its own slow rhythm.

Jeeny: (quietly) Ten seconds doesn’t seem like much, does it?

Jack: (gruffly) Not when the world’s on fire.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Then maybe that’s exactly when it matters.

Jack: (leans back) You think ten seconds is going to fix the kind of anger I carry?

Jeeny: (softly) No. But it might stop it from breaking something that can’t be fixed.

Host: The waitress passed by with a pot of coffee, offering a polite nod before refilling their cups. The sound of the liquid pouring was the only thing keeping the silence from shattering. Jack’s eyes stayed on the window, watching the raindrops slide down — a thousand tiny countdowns.

Jack: (finally) You ever feel like if you don’t speak right then — in the moment — you’ll choke on what you’re holding back?

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) I have. And I’ve choked on regret more times than on silence.

Jack: (smirks) Silence doesn’t fix injustice.

Jeeny: (firmly) Neither does rage.

Jack: (leans forward) Then what does? Sitting still and counting numbers while someone spits in your face?

Jeeny: (calmly) Sometimes counting is the difference between control and chaos. Between speaking truth and spitting venom.

Host: Jack’s reflection flickered in the window — the light from the neon sign painting half his face in red, the other in blue. Like a man torn between war and peace.

Jack: (bitterly) Jefferson said that two centuries ago. Easy to preach patience when you have power.

Jeeny: (softly) True. But wisdom doesn’t always come from privilege. Sometimes it just survives it.

Jack: (quietly) So you think patience is a virtue?

Jeeny: (nods) I think restraint is a kind of strength. Anyone can explode. Only a few can absorb.

Jack: (scoffs) Absorb? Sounds like surrender.

Jeeny: (gently) No — it’s transformation. You don’t suppress the fire. You let it cool long enough to decide whether to cook with it or burn down the room.

Host: The rain slowed, the sound thinning into a soft patter. The diner lights reflected off the wet glass, shimmering like ripples of heat that hadn’t yet turned to flame.

Jack: (after a long silence) You ever been angry enough to see red? Like, literally — like the whole world goes crimson?

Jeeny: (softly) Yes.

Jack: (looks up) What’d you do?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) I counted.

Jack: (half-laughs) You’re serious.

Jeeny: (nodding) Very. Once, twice, three times if I had to. I counted until the words that wanted to hurt turned into words that wanted to heal.

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) And did it work?

Jeeny: (after a pause) It saved someone I loved.

Host: A flicker of lightning flashed outside, followed by a low rumble. The diner’s neon light blinked once, went out, then came back — weaker but alive. Jack’s eyes softened in the half-dark, curiosity breaking through the armor.

Jack: (quietly) You talking about me?

Jeeny: (gently) You. My father. Myself. Anger’s a family trait, Jack. Some of us just learn the math faster.

Jack: (sighs) Math again. You and your formulas.

Jeeny: (smiling) It’s simple math, really. Ten seconds. One hundred heartbeats. The equation for peace.

Jack: (murmuring) I’ve never been good at waiting.

Jeeny: (softly) No one is. But every second you wait, you build a bridge between the fire and the words you won’t regret tomorrow.

Host: The clock ticked. Ten seconds. They sat in silence — not empty silence, but charged, alive. The kind that holds everything they hadn’t said yet.

Jack: (quietly) What about when counting doesn’t help? When you’re already burning?

Jeeny: (gently) Then count again. From one. From breath. From mercy. Start over as many times as it takes.

Jack: (rubs his temples) Sounds exhausting.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) It’s less exhausting than rebuilding after you’ve destroyed something.

Jack: (nods slowly) You sound like you’ve seen that happen.

Jeeny: (softly) I have. My mother once told me, “Anger is fast. Love is patient.” I didn’t understand it then. Now I do. Counting gives love a chance to catch up.

Host: The rain stopped entirely now. Only the sound of the clock remained — each tick a heartbeat, each second a decision.

Jack: (after a pause) Maybe I don’t count because I’m afraid of what’ll come after.

Jeeny: (quietly) What do you mean?

Jack: (looking down) If I stop long enough to think, I’ll have to admit the anger isn’t just about them. It’s about me.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the real danger, isn’t it? When the enemy wears your face.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. I guess counting’s not just to stop you from hurting others. It’s to stop you from hurting yourself.

Jeeny: (gently) Exactly. Jefferson wasn’t telling us to delay rage. He was teaching us to survive it.

Host: The lights flickered again, but steadied this time — the diner glowing warm, golden. The storm had passed, outside and in.

Jack: (quietly) So, ten seconds.

Jeeny: (smiles) Or a hundred, if it’s bad.

Jack: (grins faintly) What if I lose count?

Jeeny: (softly) Then I’ll count for you.

Host: For the first time that night, Jack laughed — quietly, like a crack in stone letting light through. The sound seemed to fill the whole diner, pushing back the night’s heaviness.

He reached across the table, taking the napkin in his hand, smoothing it flat. His eyes lingered on Jefferson’s words, his thumb tracing the ink as if trying to memorize the rhythm of restraint.

Jeeny: (watching him) What are you thinking?

Jack: (softly) That maybe counting isn’t about numbers. Maybe it’s about remembering there’s still time to choose who you want to be.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s it, Jack. Counting isn’t waiting. It’s deciding.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Yeah. And for once, I think I’d rather choose peace over being right.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s when you finally win.

Host: The neon sign outside flickered one last time, its colors blending into a steady glow — no longer pulsing, no longer desperate. The night itself seemed calmer, its air softer, its edges gentler.

Jack finished his coffee in silence, then stood, sliding the napkin into his pocket. Jeeny followed, her smile small but certain.

Host (closing):
Outside, the storm clouds parted, revealing a sliver of moonlight stretching across the wet asphalt.

In the stillness, Jefferson’s words echoed — not as rule, but as rhythm:

“When angry, count to ten before you speak. If very angry, count to one hundred.”

Because anger demands reaction,
but wisdom asks for reflection.

And as Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the quiet night, their footsteps slow, the world felt measured again — not in seconds, but in choices made carefully, and the grace of counting before the storm speaks for you.