Late evening in a corner café on a narrow London lane. The walls are brushed in warm ochre, rain beads glide lazily down the glass. Three coats hang on hooks by the door: a light trench, a grey overcoat, and a third with a striped lining. Inside it is dry and snug, the air scented with fresh scones and tea. Milly, the waitress, glides between tables almost unheard. At a table by the window sit three men: Ian, Sam and Andrew.
Ian arrived firsthe dislikes being late. He sheds his coat, folds his scarf neatly, and immediately pulls out his phone to scan work emails, trying not to think about tomorrows planning meeting. His palms are still cool from the street; the room is warm, the windows fogging from the temperature clash. Ian orders a pot of green tea for everyoneso it begins, almost every time they meet.
Sam slips in almost silently: tall, a little stooped, eyes weary but a lively smile. He hangs his jacket on the neighbours hook, sits opposite Ian and gives a brief nod.
How are you? he asks.
Quietly getting on, Ian replies, restrained.
Sam orders a coffee for himselfhe always drinks it in the evening, even though he knows it will keep him awake later.
Andrew is the last to enter, slightly out of breath after a brisk walk from the Underground. 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 pastry he selects only water.
They gather here once a monthsometimes missing a meeting because of work or a childs illness (Sam has two boys)but the tradition has endured for thirty years, ever since they were physics students together. Now each leads a separate life: Ian is a senior manager at a tech firm, Sam teaches at a college and tutors on the side, Andrew until recently ran a small electronicsrepair business.
The evening begins in the familiar way: they swap newswho travelled where for work, how the children are faring, which books or series theyve been devouring, the odd workplace mishap. Andrew listens more than he speaks, chuckles rarely; at times he stares out at the rainspattered street so long that the others exchange glances.
Ian is the first to sense a shift: Andrew no longer laughs at the old university anecdotes; when the talk drifts to new phones or holidays abroad he steers the conversation elsewhere or offers a misplaced smile.
Sam notices, too: when the bill arrives and Milly places it on the table with the question Split or together?, Andrew fumbles with his phone and says hell settle his share laterthe app is glitching. Usually he paid outright, even offering to cover the whole tab.
At one point Sam tries to coax his friend with a joke:
Whats got you so serious? Taxes again?
Andrew shrugs.
Just a lot has piled up.
Ian adds:
Maybe you should switch fields? You could teach online, take a course, anything
Andrew forces a thin smile.
Thanks for the suggestion
A silence stretches; none knows how to move forward.
The café darkens quickly: the light sharpens, the street disappears behind a milky pane, only the occasional silhouette of a passerby flickers by the lamp opposite.
The friends try to revive the lightness of their chat: they mention sports news (which bores Ian), argue about a new law (Andrew barely joins). Yet the tension between them grows more palpable.
Soon Sam cant hold it any longer.
Andrew if you need money, just say it! Were your mates.
Andrew lifts his gaze sharply.
You think its that simple? You think asking makes it easier?
His voice trembles; for the first time this evening it rises above the hum.
Ian steps in.
We just want to help! Whats the problem?
Andrew looks at both of them.
Help with advice? Or to owe you forever? You dont get it!
He darts from his seat, the chair screeching against the floor. Milly watches from behind the bar, eyebrows raised.
For a heartbeat nothing moves; the air feels heavy, as if the tea is cooling faster. Andrew snatches his coat from the hook and storms out, slamming the door harder than needed.
The two remaining sit, each feeling a sting of guilt, yet neither dares to be the first to speak.
The door closes, a rush of wind briefly chills the window table. Sam stares at the cloudy glass, where a streetlamp flickers, while Ian absentmindedly twirls a spoon in his cup, hesitant to break the silence. The tension lingers, but now it feels almost necessaryas if without it nothing could be clarified.
Sam finally breaks the hush.
Maybe I overreacted Im not sure how to phrase it. He sighs, looking at Ian. What would you say?
Ian shrugs, his voice unusually firm.
If I knew how to help, Id have already done it. Were all adults but sometimes its easier to step back than to say something pointless.
They fall quiet. Milly returns to the counter, carving a fresh cake, and the smell of warm pastry fills the room again. Beyond the door a shadow flickersAndrew stands under the awning, hood pulled low, slowly scrolling his phone. Deciding, Ian rises.
Ill go get him. I dont want him to walk away like that.
He steps into the vestibule, where cool air mingles with the lingering dampness of the street. Andrew stands with his back to the door, shoulders slumped.
Andrew Ian pauses beside him, not touching. Sorry if we overstepped. Were just worried.
Andrew turns slowly.
I get it. But you dont tell each other everything either, do you? I just wanted to manage on my own. It didnt worknow theres shame and a strange anger inside.
Ian ponders the words, then after a pause says:
Lets go back to the table. No ones forcing you. We can talk or stay quietyour call. Just one thing: if you need help with something, say it straight away, and about money I could sort something specific, as long as we dont end up in awkward debts.
Andrew looks at him, relief and fatigue mixing.
Thanks. Id just like to be here with you, normal, without pity or extra questions.
They return together. On the table already lies a slice of hot cake and a small bowl of jam. Sam offers an awkward grin.
Got the cake for everyone. Figured I could do something useful today.
Andrew sits and quietly thanks them. For a while they eat in silence; someone stirs sugar into tea, crumbs gather by the napkins. Gradually the conversation softensno longer problems, but weekend plans and new books for Sams boys.
Later Sam asks gently:
If you ever need to talk about work or explore options, Im happy to help or put you in touch. As for money you decide when youre ready to bring it up.
Andrew nods gratefully.
Lets leave it as it is for now. I dont want to feel indebted or like an outsider among you.
The pause no longer weighs on them; each seems to have accepted an unspoken rule of newfound honesty. They agree to meet again in a month, right hereno matter who arrives or what news they bring.
When its time to part, each pulls out a phone: Ian checks a message about tomorrows office briefing, Sam replies to his wife with a quick All good, Andrew lingers a moment longer on his screen before slipping the device into his pocket without fanfare.
Only two coats remain on the rack: Ians grey overcoat and Sams light trench. Andrew has already redonned his coat after the brief return from the vestibule; now they dress slowly, helping each other find a scarf or fasten a button with one hand, as if reclaiming the ease of old friendship through simple, caring gestures.
Outside the drizzle thickens; the lamps glow reflects in a puddle right by the cafés entrance. The friends step out together under the awning; a cold gust rushes across their faces through the open door.
Sam leads forward.
Next month, then? If anything comes up, give me a ring, even at night!
Ian pats Andrew on the shoulder.
Were close, even when we act a bit foolish.
Andrew smiles, a little embarrassed.
Thanks, both of you really.
No grand promises are needed now; each knows his own measure of involvement and the price of the nights words.
They part ways at the doorway: some rush to the tube through the wet lantern light, others turn into the courtyard between the houses, walking nearer home. The tradition enduresnow it demands greater honesty and care for each others pain, and that is what keeps it alive.
