Zorba the Greek

Scene: A Quiet Night in Belize Sam & Jessica Discuss Zorba the Greek

The whiskey was half gone, the ice melting in slow, lazy swirls. Outside, the Belizean night hummed, waves lapping against the shore, palm leaves rustling in the breeze. The heat had settled into something tolerable, thick but no longer oppressive.

Jessica sat curled up in the corner of Sam’s worn leather couch, one leg tucked under her, a book in her hands. The spine was cracked, the pages yellowed, Kazantzakis’ Zorba the Greek.

Sam sat across from her, his own glass resting on the table, untouched. He watched her read, the way her eyes moved over the words with a quiet intensity, like she wasn’t just reading the story—she was wrestling with it.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

Jessica glanced up. “It’s frustrating.”

Sam smirked, leaning back. “That’s not exactly a literary critique.”

Jessica set the book down. “It’s just, Zorba. He’s reckless. He’s ridiculous. He doesn’t think ahead. And the narrator, he’s trying so hard to understand him, to learn from him, but he never actually lives the way Zorba does. He just watches.”

Sam nodded, running a hand along his jaw. “And you don’t think there’s any wisdom in that?”

Jessica exhaled, staring at the book like it had personally wronged her. “I don’t know. It’s like… I get it. Zorba embraces life. He doesn’t overthink. He just is. But that’s not how the world works, not really. You can’t just throw yourself into everything without consequence.”

Sam took a sip of his whiskey, studying her over the rim of his glass. “And what about you?”

Jessica frowned. “What about me?”

Sam set his glass down, his voice even. “You’re not exactly the overthinking type, either. You throw yourself into things. You go where the fight takes you. You don’t sit on the sidelines watching.”

Jessica scoffed, shaking her head. “I’m not like Zorba.”

Sam tilted his head. “Aren’t you?”

She hesitated.

She wanted to say no. She wanted to say she was nothing like the old Greek who danced in the face of disaster, who lived every day like it was his last, who laughed at the very idea of control.

But wasn’t that exactly what she did?

Hadn’t she chased after the truth without thinking about what it would cost her? Hadn’t she burned down everything she ever had, just to see what was on the other side? Hadn’t she lived on the edge of disaster for so long that she barely knew anything else?

She swallowed hard, looking away.

Sam let the silence sit between them for a moment before speaking again.

“You know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re fighting the same battle as the narrator.”

Jessica’s brow furrowed. “Meaning?”

Sam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “The narrator wants to be free. He wants to live like Zorba. But he can’t. He’s too tied to his own doubts. He’s always analyzing, always looking for meaning instead of just living.”

Jessica let that sink in.

She had spent so much time chasing answers, chasing certainty. Trying to find out who she was, what she was, whether she was even real. She had spent her life defining herself by the fight.

But what would she be if she ever stopped?

She exhaled. “So what, you think I should just let go? Be more like Zorba?”

Sam shrugged. “I think there’s a balance. You don’t have to be all one thing or the other. You’re not just a soldier, Jess. You’re not just a weapon, or a ghost, or whatever else you tell yourself. You’re more than that.”

Jessica looked down at the book again, running a thumb along the worn pages.

“Zorba dances,” she murmured.

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Jessica exhaled. “Even when everything falls apart, he dances.”

“Because that’s the only thing left to do.”

Jessica was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, she closed the book, setting it aside.

She reached for her glass and took a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn.

Maybe, for tonight, she didn’t need all the answers.

Maybe, for tonight, she could just exist.