You gotta have a body.

Host: The neon lights of the bar flickered like tired eyes, half-asleep in the city’s midnight hum. Outside, the rain hissed against the windows, soft and relentless, wrapping the streets in a veil of silver blur. Inside, Jack sat with his collar undone, a glass of whiskey half-drained before him. His hands rested on the table, steady, deliberate. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, the steam curling like a ghost between them. The air carried the smell of rain, smoke, and regret.

Jeeny: “Jayne Mansfield once said, ‘You gotta have a body.’ Strange how something so simple can mean so much.”

Jack: “Simple’s the key word there, Jeeny. She meant it literally. In her world, if you didn’t have the right kind of body, you didn’t exist. Hollywood, magazines, audiences — they all wanted flesh before they wanted soul.”

Host: A car honked outside, its sound echoing like a sharp reminder of the world beyond. Jeeny’s eyes lifted from her cup, their brown depths calm but burning.

Jeeny: “But don’t you think she was saying something more? ‘You gotta have a body’ — as in, you have to be present, alive, grounded. You can’t love, fight, or dream without being in your own skin. Maybe it wasn’t vanity. Maybe it was existence itself.”

Jack: “Existence, sure. But existence isn’t the same as meaning. You can have a body and still be empty. Look at Marilyn Monroe — or Mansfield herself. They had everything the world wanted: beauty, fame, adoration. And still, they ended up tragic headlines.”

Jeeny: “Because the world saw only their bodies, Jack. Not their souls. That’s exactly why her words sting — because they’re true and cruel at the same time.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, loud and intrusive, like a heartbeat counting down something unseen. Jack’s gaze fell to his glass, watching the amber liquid tremble with the faint rhythm of the rain.

Jack: “You know what I think? She was right. You do need a body — not for the soul, not for art, but for power. People listen when your body speaks louder than your words. Politicians, celebrities, influencers — they all know it. The body is the new currency. It buys attention.”

Jeeny: “And what does that make us, Jack? Products? Shelves full of skins competing for a glance?”

Jack: “Pretty much. In a way, it’s honest. At least it doesn’t hide behind ideals. The body doesn’t lie. It’s the first and last truth.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, the porcelain trembling slightly. The steam rose, framing her face in a halo of light from the bar’s flickering sign.

Jeeny: “That’s not truth, Jack. That’s surrender. When you say the body is all that matters, you’re giving up on everything else — mind, heart, conscience. You’re saying we’re just machines of appetite.”

Jack: “And maybe we are. Look around. The world’s economy, its art, its politics — everything runs on the currency of desire. Even your social compassion, Jeeny, needs a platform, a face, a visible body to believe in. If you were invisible, would anyone listen to your kindness?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If they still had a heart.”

Jack: “Hearts follow eyes, Jeeny. Always have, always will.”

Host: Lightning flared outside, flashing across their faces — his sharp and cold, hers soft but fierce. For a moment, they both fell silent, the rain doing the talking.

Jeeny: “You think too little of people.”

Jack: “And you think too much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I still believe the body isn’t the whole story. It’s the vessel, not the message. You can have a beautiful body and still be starving inside. You can be broken, scarred, aged — and still radiant. Like Frida Kahlo painting through her pain. Her body was ruined, but her spirit wasn’t.”

Jack: “Frida turned her pain into art. But she also used her body — painted it, framed it, made it iconic. Even her suffering became a symbol through flesh. You can’t escape the body, Jeeny. It’s the billboard of your soul.”

Host: The rain eased into a drizzle, the windowpane now a faint mirror. Jack’s reflection appeared beside Jeeny’s, blurred together by the wet glass.

Jeeny: “But what happens when the billboard fades? When the body weakens? What do we have then?”

Jack: “Then we die. That’s the point. The body keeps us honest. It reminds us that time wins.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we must love beyond it. To live only through the body is to build your home on sand.”

Jack: “And to live only through ideals is to build it in the air.”

Host: The room fell into a thick hush, only the rain’s rhythm filling the void. Jack leaned back, his eyes distant, his jaw tightening with something between defiance and resignation.

Jack: “You know, when I was twenty, I used to think I was invincible. I’d run miles, lift weights, chase every rush I could find. I thought my body was who I was. Then one day, a car accident put me in a hospital bed for months. I watched my muscles shrink, my reflection vanish. I learned that when your body fails, the world looks through you — like you’re already gone.”

Jeeny: “And did you vanish, Jack?”

Jack: “For a while, yeah. But I came back. The scars stayed, though. They remind me that we’re nothing without this —” (he touches his chest) “— this cage of bones and breath.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a cage. Maybe it’s a temple. You see walls; I see sanctuary.”

Host: The lights flickered again, and a waitress passed by, leaving the faint scent of soap and coffee grounds. The bar had begun to empty, leaving behind only murmurs and clinking glasses.

Jack: “You really think there’s holiness in flesh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every scar, wrinkle, heartbeat — they’re proof of being. The body isn’t the enemy of the soul; it’s the instrument through which the soul sings. Even Mansfield, with all her beauty and tragedy, was trying to say that. To live fully, you gotta have a body — not as decoration, but as devotion.”

Jack: “Devotion? To what?”

Jeeny: “To life. To the sheer miracle of feeling. Of pain, of touch, of breath. Without a body, we can’t hold someone’s hand, can’t taste rain, can’t feel grief. It’s not about perfection — it’s about participation.”

Host: Jack’s gaze softened, his fingers tapping against the table, as though weighing her words like stones in his palm.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Even the mundane. Even this moment — two bodies, two souls, sharing silence.”

Jack: “And whiskey.”

Jeeny: “And coffee.”

Host: They both smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that hides years of argument but still reaches under the armor. The rain had stopped. The city lights outside shimmered like tiny stars, reflected in puddles that trembled under the faint breath of wind.

Jeeny: “So maybe Mansfield wasn’t just talking about curves and cameras. Maybe she was warning us. That to be seen, to live, to matter — you can’t just think or dream. You gotta inhabit yourself.”

Jack: “You gotta have a body.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck one. The bar’s neon flickered once, then died, leaving only the soft glow of the streetlights spilling through the window. Jack stood, stretching slightly, his coat falling around him like a shadow. Jeeny rose too, her eyes steady, her breath slow.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the problem isn’t the body. Maybe it’s forgetting that there’s more to carry inside it.”

Jeeny: “Then promise you won’t forget.”

Jack: “I won’t.”

Host: They stepped into the night, the rain-washed air cool against their faces. Above them, the city pulsed — alive, wounded, beautiful. The pavement glistened under their footsteps, and for a moment, both seemed to move not as minds or souls, but as pure, living bodies — fragile, human, utterly real.

The camera pulled back, rising slowly through the mist, as their figures disappeared into the light, leaving only the echo of a truth shared between them — that to live, to love, to fall, to rise — you must, after all, have a body.