The Wall

Scene: Whiskey, Shadows, and Sartre – Jessica and Sam Discuss The Wall

The porch light flickered, casting long, shifting shadows against the wood. The night was still, thick with the scent of salt and damp earth. Jessica sat with one leg tucked beneath her, a cigarette burning lazily between her fingers. Sam leaned back in his chair, whiskey in hand, the pages of The Wall lying open on the table between them.

Jessica exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “So, we’re doing Sartre again.”

Sam smirked. “You keep letting me pick the books.”

Jessica flicked ash onto the step. “I like to see where your mind goes.”

Sam chuckled, taking a sip of whiskey. “And?”

Jessica tilted her head, studying him. “I think you wanted to see what I’d say about a man sentenced to die, convinced he has no way out.”

Sam nodded, waiting.

Jessica stretched out her legs, tapping her cigarette against the railing. “Pablo spends the whole night believing he’s doomed. He wrestles with the fear, the meaning of life, the lack of it. He accepts that nothing matters. And then…” She smirked. “A twist of fate. The people who were supposed to kill him shoot the wrong guy instead.”

Sam swirled the whiskey in his glass. “And then he laughs.”

Jessica nodded. “Because he realizes the joke.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “What joke?”

Jessica took another drag, the ember glowing in the dark. “That none of it mattered. The fear, the bargaining, the meaning he tried to find in his own death. It was all useless. And in the end, he didn’t die—not because of anything he did. Just blind chance.”

Sam studied her. “So what do you take from that?”

Jessica let the question hang in the air. The waves rolled in steady, unchanging.

Finally, she exhaled. “That maybe we’re all just waiting for the wall to come down.”

Sam nodded, watching her carefully. “And what if it doesn’t?”

Jessica flicked the cigarette into the sand, rubbing her fingers together absently. “Then I guess we keep waiting.”

Sam took another sip. “Or you stop waiting.”

Jessica scoffed. “And do what?”

Sam leaned forward, setting his glass down. “You keep acting like you’re still in front of that wall, Jess. Like everything’s already decided. Like you’re just waiting for the shot to come.”

Jessica tensed slightly.

Sam’s voice stayed steady. “But what if you’ve already walked past it?”

Jessica exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “You think I’m free?”

Sam tilted his head. “You think you’re not?”

Jessica didn’t answer.

The silence stretched, thick and weighty.

Then, softly, she said, “Maybe I don’t know how to live without the wall.”

Sam leaned back. “Then maybe that’s the real prison.”

Jessica let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

Sam reached for the book, flipping to the final page. “Pablo thought death would give him an answer. When he didn’t die, he realized there was no answer.” He met her gaze. “So he laughed.”

Jessica huffed a quiet chuckle. “You want me to laugh about all this?”

Sam smirked. “Might not hurt.”

Jessica shook her head, but there was something lighter in her eyes. She picked up her glass, rolling it between her fingers.

“The joke’s not funny yet.”

Sam raised his own glass. “Maybe one day.”

Jessica clinked hers against his, her smirk returning.

“Maybe.”

And for the first time in a long time, the wall didn’t feel so close.