You know the funny thing, I don't get along with rich people. I

Host: The city was dressed in its midnight suit — skyscrapers glowing like golden daggers against the smog, the hum of traffic below echoing like a restless heartbeat. Through the panoramic windows of a private penthouse lounge, the world looked like a shimmering lie — beautiful from above, lonely from within.

Host: A fireplace crackled in the corner, throwing warm light on marble floors and leather chairs that looked more like thrones than seats. The air smelled of money, bourbon, and a touch of emptiness too clean to be honest.

Host: Jack stood near the window, hands in his pockets, his reflection floating against the city’s lights. Jeeny sat on the couch, small against the vastness of the room, sipping her coffee from a porcelain cup that looked absurdly delicate in her hands.

Host: The quote hung between them — “You know the funny thing, I don’t get along with rich people. I get along with the middle class and the poor people better than I get along with the rich people.” — Donald Trump.

Jack: “It’s funny, isn’t it? A billionaire saying he doesn’t get along with rich people. That’s like a wolf claiming he’s more comfortable among sheep.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a confession, not a contradiction. Maybe he meant he understands the struggle better than he understands the masks. Wealth changes the language people speak — and maybe he’s just saying he’s forgotten that dialect.”

Jack: “Please. The rich don’t forget; they just rebrand. It’s public relations dressed as humility.”

Jeeny: “I don’t know, Jack. Sometimes even those with gold on their wrists long for the dirt under their nails again. Maybe he’s not lying — maybe he’s just lonely.”

Jack: “Lonely among kings? That’s a luxury kind of loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Loneliness doesn’t care what kind of chair you sit on.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a brief spark into the air, which died before reaching the marble. The sound lingered like an afterthought. Jack turned from the window, the glow of the city playing across his sharp features — eyes gray, voice gravel.

Jack: “I’ve seen how the rich treat honesty — like an awkward waiter. They tolerate it until it makes them uncomfortable, then they tip it to leave.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re not poor yourself, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m not rich, either. There’s a difference between having money and being made of it.”

Jeeny: “So you think the rich lose their humanity?”

Jack: “Not lose — trade it. For insulation. They wrap themselves in comfort until they can’t feel the cold anymore. But it’s still there, just outside the walls.”

Jeeny: “You talk like you’ve been inside those walls.”

Jack: “I have. Once. They were colder than the alleys.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice carried warmth, not pity. She set the cup down gently, the sound a small punctuation in the heavy air.

Jeeny: “You think wealth kills empathy, but maybe it just buries it. The middle class and the poor — they can’t afford to stop needing each other. That’s why they’re easier to love. They still know how.”

Jack: “Love isn’t profitable. That’s why the rich outsource it.”

Jeeny: “No, they misplace it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “They turn it into charity. That’s not love, Jeeny — that’s guilt with branding.”

Jeeny: “You’re cynical because you’ve only seen the performance, not the longing behind it. Even those who have everything crave the feeling of earning something real.”

Jack: “And yet they buy it instead.”

Jeeny: “Because they’ve forgotten how to build it.”

Host: The rain began outside — a slow, deliberate rhythm against the glass. The city blurred, the lights softening into molten streaks of gold and gray. Jack leaned closer to the window, his breath fogging the pane for a moment before fading.

Jack: “You know, I grew up thinking money was freedom. Turns out, it’s just another kind of leash — made of silk instead of chain.”

Jeeny: “But it still binds, doesn’t it?”

Jack: “Tighter. Because it’s beautiful while it strangles.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why some rich people envy the poor. The poor can still dream. The rich just buy their distractions.”

Jack: “Dreams are the currency of the hungry. Once you’re full, you stop believing you can starve.”

Jeeny: “So you think empathy comes from hunger?”

Jack: “Of course it does. Comfort dulls compassion.”

Jeeny: “And yet, pain without perspective just becomes bitterness, Jack. The poor can envy, the rich can pity, and both can misunderstand each other completely. Maybe the only truth is — we all crave authenticity, just in different price ranges.”

Host: The firelight flickered across Jeeny’s face, painting her expression in shades of warmth and defiance. Jack watched her, the faintest smirk forming — not out of amusement, but recognition.

Jack: “You’re saying Trump wasn’t bragging or pretending — he was admitting something?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That even in wealth, he feels misplaced. That he understands the language of the struggle better than the silence of luxury.”

Jack: “That’s generous of you. I think he was just trying to sound relatable.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even lies point toward the truth they’re afraid to tell.”

Jack: “Which truth?”

Jeeny: “That wealth isolates. That you can stand on a mountain and still feel invisible.”

Jack: “So the rich are tragic now?”

Jeeny: “Not tragic — human. Just like the rest of us.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, streaking the windows like the world trying to wash itself clean. The flames dimmed slightly, as if tired from burning too long.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I think there’s a funny kind of irony in that quote. The man who lives in towers says he understands those who build them. Maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he can’t stand being around his own kind — too many mirrors, not enough windows.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic, Jack.”

Jack: “No. That’s sad.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes those are the same thing.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure, then? For this sickness of wealth?”

Jeeny: “Humility. Proximity. Remembering what it feels like to need — and to be needed.”

Jack: “And when that’s gone?”

Jeeny: “Then all the gold in the world can’t buy warmth.”

Host: The fire was nearly out. The last embers glowed like small truths refusing to die quietly. Jack poured the last of his drink, the sound soft, final.

Jeeny stood and walked to the window, her reflection hovering beside his. Together they stared at the sprawling city below — towers piercing clouds, lights flickering like small attempts at divinity.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “I think maybe the poor and the middle class laugh differently. Their laughter’s louder — because it has to be. It fills the empty rooms. The rich, though… their laughter never leaves the walls.”

Jack: “Because walls don’t echo. They insulate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain eased. The sky outside began to lighten, the faintest thread of dawn stitching through the clouds. The city glowed softer now — humbled by morning.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the truth in what he said. Maybe he doesn’t get along with rich people — not because he isn’t one of them, but because part of him still remembers what it’s like not to be. Maybe that’s the curse of climbing too high — you forget which floor you started on.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you never forget. Maybe you just stop visiting.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe.”

Host: The first light of day slipped through the glass, landing across their faces — two silhouettes caught between reflection and revelation.

Host: Jack turned to Jeeny, a faint smile tracing his lips.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, for all your talk about empathy, you’d make a terrible rich person.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Good. Then maybe I still have a chance at being human.”

Host: The fire went out. The city below stirred, unaware that two strangers had just debated the worth of wealth and the poverty of comfort.

Host: Outside, the sun rose — slow, deliberate — spilling light across the towers like mercy on marble.

Host: And as they walked away, the echo of their footsteps sounded like the only honest currency left: two souls paying attention in a world that had long forgotten how.