Late evening in a little café on the corner of a side street. The walls are a warm ochre, rain runs lazily down the windows. Three coats hang on hooks by the door: a light one, a grey one and a third with a stripe on the lining. Inside its dry and cosy, the scent of fresh scones and tea fills the air. The waitress glides between tables almost unnoticed. At a table by the window sit three men: Ian, Sam and Andy.
Ian arrived firsthe hates being late. He sheds his coat, folds his scarf neatly and immediately pulls out his phone to scan through work emails, trying not to think about tomorrows planning meeting. His hands are still cool from the street; the room is warm, the glass fogs up from the temperature difference. Ian orders a pot of green tea for everyoneso it usually starts every reunion.
Sam slips in almost silently: tall, a little hunched, eyes tired but a lively smile. He hangs his jacket on the next hook, sits opposite Ian and gives a short nod.
Hows it going? he asks.
Just taking it easy, Ian replies, restrained.
Sam orders a coffee for himselfhe always has it in the evenings, even though he knows it will keep him up later.
Andy comes in last, a little out of breath after a brisk walk from the tube. His hair is damp from the drizzle under his hood. He flashes a wide grin at his friends, as if everything were fine. Yet his eyes linger over the menu longer than usual; instead of his usual slice of cake he opts for just water.
They meet here once a monthsometimes they miss a session because of work or sick kids (Sam has two sons), but the tradition has endured for thirty years, ever since they were undergrads together in the physics department. Now each has his own life: Ian is a manager at a tech firm, Sam teaches at a furthereducation college and does some private tutoring, Andy until recently ran a small electronicsrepair business.
The evening kicks off in the usual way: they chat about the newswhos been travelling for work, how the kids are getting on, what theyre reading or bingewatching, funny mishaps at work or home. Andy listens more than he talks, jokes sparingly; he sometimes stares out at the rainy street for ages, prompting a glance from the others.
Ian is the first to notice a shift: Andy no longer laughs at the old university anecdotes; when the conversation drifts to new phones or a holiday abroad, he steers the topic elsewhere or offers a crooked smile.
Sam spots the change too: when the waitress brings the bill for tea and coffee, she sets it down and asks, Split it, or together? Andy fidgets with his phone and says hell pay his share laterthe app is acting up. Usually he would have paid straight away or even covered the whole thing.
At one point Sam tries to lighten the mood with a joke:
You look serioustaxes getting you down again?
Andy shrugs.
Just a lot on my plate.
Ian adds, halfseriously:
Maybe you should upskill? You could do an online course, start a side gig
Andy forces a smile.
Thanks for the tip
A pause stretches, nobody knows how to carry on.
The café grows dimmer; the light sharpens, the street disappears behind the fogged glass, only the occasional silhouette of a passerby flickers by the lantern opposite.
The friends try to revive the easy banter: sports news (Ian finds it boring), a debate about the new law (Andy barely joins). But the tension between them becomes palpable.
Soon Sam cant hold back:
Andy if you need money, just say it! Were mates.
Andy looks up sharply.
You think its that simple? You think just asking makes it easier?
His voice trembles; its the first time he raises it that loud all evening.
Ian steps in.
We just want to help! Whats the problem?
Andy glances at them both.
Help with advice? Or to remind me of a debt for the rest of my life? You dont get it!
He jumps out of his seat so hard the chair squeaks. The waitress watches from the bar with a wary eye.
For a few moments nobody moves; the air feels heavy, as if the tea is cooling faster. Andy grabs his coat from the hook and storms out, slamming the door a little too hard.
Ian and Sam are left at the table, each feeling guilty yet unwilling to be the first to speak.
The door shuts, and a draft cools the window seat for an instant. Sam watches the murky glass where a streetlamp glints, while Ian absentmindedly stirs his tea, hesitant to break the silence. The tension lingers, but now it feels almost necessaryas if without it nothing could be resolved.
Sam finally breaks the quiet.
Maybe I overreacted Im not sure what the right thing is. He sighs, looking at Ian. What would you have said?
Ian shrugs, his voice unusually firm.
If I knew how to help, Id have done it already. Were all adults but sometimes its easier to step back than to say something pointless.
They fall silent. Behind the bar the waitress slices a fresh cake, and the smell of warm pastry drifts back into the room. A figure appears in the doorwayAndy, standing under the awning, hood pulled up, slowly scrolling his phone. Deciding hes ready, Ian gets up.
Ill go get him. I dont want him to walk off like that.
He steps into the vestibule where the cool air mixes with the lingering dampness of the street. Andy stands with his back to the door, shoulders slumped.
Andy Ian stops beside him, not touching. Sorry if we overstepped. Were just worried.
Andy turns slowly.
I get it. But you dont tell me everything either, do you? I just wanted to sort it out myself. It didnt work, and now Im left feeling ashamed and angry.
Ian considers the words, then after a pause says,
Lets head back to the table. Nobodys forcing you. We can talk or stay quietyour call. Just one thing: if you need real help, tell us straight away, and about money I could chip in something specific, but I dont want awkward debts between us.
Andy looks relieved, fatigue in his eyes.
Thanks. Id just like to be here with you, without pity or extra questions.
They return together. Their table already holds a slice of hot cake and a small bowl of jam. Sam offers an awkward smile.
I bought the cake for everyone. Figured I could at least do something useful today.
Andy sits down and thanks them quietly. For a while they eat in silence; someone stirs sugar into tea, crumbs gather by the napkins. Gradually conversation softensno longer about problems, but about weekend plans or new books for Sams boys.
Later Sam gently says,
If you ever need to talk about work or explore options, Im happy to help with advice or contacts. As for money you decide when youre ready to bring it up.
Andy nods appreciatively.
Lets leave it as it is for now. I dont want to feel indebted or out of place with you.
The pause no longer feels heavy; each seems to have accepted an unspoken rule of fresh honesty. They agree to meet again next month right hereno matter who shows up or what news they bring.
When its time to part, each pulls out a phone: Ian checks a message about tomorrows office meeting, Sam replies to his wife with a quick all good, Andy lingers a moment longer on his screen before slipping it into his pocket without fanfare.
Only two coats remain on the hooks: Ians grey and Sams light one. Andy has already put his coat back on after the brief walk to the vestibule; now they help each other fasten a scarf or button a cuff, as if reclaiming the easy camaraderie through simple gestures of care.
Outside the drizzle thickens; the streetlamp reflects in a puddle right by the café entrance. The friends step out together under the awning; the cold air rushes past them through the open door.
Sam goes first.
Next month, then? Give me a ring if anything pops upeven at night!
Ian claps Andy on the shoulder.
Weve got your back, even when we act a bit daft.
Andy smiles, a little embarrassed.
Thanks, both of you really.
No grand promises are needed now; each knows their level of involvement and the true price of the nights words.
They split up at the doorway: some head for the tube through the wet glow of streetlights, others turn toward the courtyard between houses, walking home. The tradition enduresnow it demands a sharper honesty and a gentler handling of each others pain, and thats what keeps it alive.
