Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food.

Host: The evening air hummed with the quiet rhythm of a city unwinding. A soft rain had begun, tracing delicate patterns down the windowpane of a dimly lit bar tucked between two bookshops on an old street. The faint sound of jazz drifted from a dusty speaker, mingling with the aroma of coffee and whiskey.

Host: At the far corner, under the amber light of a flickering lamp, sat Jack and Jeeny. The table between them bore two half-empty glasses and the scattered remains of a conversation that had started hours earlier — one that now drifted toward the philosophical.

Host: Jeeny had just scribbled something on a napkin — a quote she’d found in an old essay she’d read that morning.

“Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food.” — William Hazlitt

Jeeny: “I love that,” she said, tilting her head, her eyes reflecting the light like warm amber. “It’s so true. Conversation should nourish, not just sparkle.”

Jack: He smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “And yet sparkle’s what people crave. Nobody remembers a nourishing talk. They remember the one-liner that made everyone laugh.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they mistake laughter for connection.”

Jack: “And maybe they’re right,” he said, his voice smooth, his tone teasing. “People want to feel alive, not enlightened. The world’s heavy enough. Who wants another serving of seriousness?”

Host: A car horn blared faintly outside, distant and impatient. The rain began to fall harder, its rhythm syncing with the muted beat of the jazz.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think it’s lazy?” she asked, leaning forward. “To skim on the surface of words? To hide behind cleverness? Wit without depth is just noise dressed in charm.”

Jack: “Charm gets you through the door,” he countered. “Depth keeps you alone at the table.”

Host: Jeeny smiled at that — a slow, knowing smile that seemed to soften the edge of his cynicism.

Jeeny: “So you’d rather be admired than understood?”

Jack: “Isn’t that what everyone wants, deep down? To be seen, even if it’s just for their cleverness? Look at Oscar Wilde. The man built a career on wit — every line a spark.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said quietly, “and every spark eventually burned him.”

Host: The music faded for a moment, replaced by the faint crackling of the old speaker, as if the room itself were holding its breath.

Jack: “That’s not fair,” he said. “Wilde wasn’t ruined by wit. He was ruined by a world that feared honesty disguised as humor.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the danger, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Wit becomes armor. You start using it to deflect truth instead of discover it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke. Jack looked down, tracing the rim of his glass, his reflection distorted in the liquid amber.

Jack: “You make it sound like being clever is a sin.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, “it’s a gift. But like salt — too much spoils everything.”

Host: A silence stretched between them, rich and thoughtful. The bartender wiped down the counter with a slow rhythm, the light catching the faint gleam of bottles behind him.

Jack: “You think conversation should be about baring souls?” he asked. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people speak without filters. They get torn apart. Honesty’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No, honesty’s sacred,” she replied. “It’s just rare. True conversation isn’t about blurting truth — it’s about revealing it carefully, like peeling an orange. Wit can help, sure — but only if it doesn’t steal the flavor.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering into a misty drizzle. A group of young people at the next table burst into laughter — loud, effortless, fleeting. Jack glanced at them, then back at Jeeny.

Jack: “Look at them. They’re not peeling oranges. They’re just throwing jokes like darts, and they look… happy.”

Jeeny: “For now,” she said. “But you and I both know what happens when the laughter fades.”

Host: Jack tilted his head, curious. “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “Silence,” she said simply. “And in silence, if there’s nothing deeper beneath the wit — nothing shared, nothing true — then all that remains is emptiness. Noise can’t fill it.”

Jack: “You sound like a poet who doesn’t know when to laugh.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic afraid to listen.”

Host: The words hit him with the quiet precision of truth. He smiled — not his usual sardonic smile, but something softer, almost rueful.

Jack: “You think I hide behind humor?”

Jeeny: “You think you don’t?”

Host: He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You’ve got me there.”

Jeeny: “I’m not trying to get you,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I just want to talk — really talk. Wit makes us dance, but truth makes us stay.”

Host: The rain stopped. The window glistened with soft trails of water, catching the glow of passing headlights. The bar had emptied out, leaving only the two of them and the quiet hum of the city beyond.

Jack: “You know,” he said slowly, “you might be right. Maybe wit’s just the seasoning. The flavor’s in the silence between lines — in the moments when you don’t have to perform.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “The best conversations aren’t about who’s cleverer — they’re about who’s real.”

Host: He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes softer now, stripped of irony.

Jack: “You’re good at this — getting under people’s skin.”

Jeeny: “I don’t want under it,” she said, smiling faintly. “I just want through it.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights further. The jazz returned — slower, more melancholic — the kind that fills the space between two hearts learning to understand one another.

Jack: “You know, maybe Hazlitt was warning us,” he said. “Wit without warmth is just noise. But wit with heart — that’s music.”

Jeeny: “Now that,” she said with a soft laugh, “is worth remembering.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The street gleamed beneath the faint glow of the lampposts, and a breeze carried the scent of wet earth and night jasmine through the door as it opened and closed.

Host: Jack raised his glass slightly, a quiet toast between old wounds and newfound truths.

Jack: “To salt — but not too much.”

Jeeny: “And to food that feeds the soul.”

Host: Their glasses touched with a soft clink — not loud, not showy, just enough to seal a moment that would outlast the night.

Host: The camera lingered as they fell into quiet laughter, not sharp or witty this time — but warm, genuine, and human. The kind of laughter that doesn’t dazzle but stays.

Host: And as the music played on, Hazlitt’s words seemed to hover gently above them, like a blessing whispered over conversation itself — that wit may brighten, but truth sustains.