Evening for oneself
Andrew was trudging home down a shadowed lane, where puddles halfhidden beneath amber leaves glittered under the feeble glow of the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the English Midlands was hardly a time for wandering: a damp, bonechilling wind slipped through the coat, and the houses seemed distant, indifferent. He quickened his step as if fleeing some unseen pressure that had hovered over him since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthdaya date he habitually tried to ignore.
Inside his chest grew a familiar tightness, not the thrill of anticipation but a viscous weight, like a stubborn knot lodged in his ribs. Year after year the same script unfolded: formal messages, brief calls from colleagues, perfunctory smiles. It all felt like a foreign play in which he was forced to act the celebrant, though he no longer felt the part.
Once, when he was a child, Andrew rose early and waited for the day with a trembling heart, believing in a tiny miraclethe scent of a homebaked cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, and the noisy clatter of guests around the table. Back then congratulations were genuine, accompanied by hearty laughter and bustling activity. Now memories of that time surfaced only rarely, always leaving a light ache behind.
He pushed open the flats entrance doora gust of moist air struck his face even harder. The hallway was a familiar mess: a dripping umbrella propped against the wall, jackets hung haphazardly on hooks. Andrew slipped off his shoes and paused before the mirror; his face reflected weeks of fatigue and something elsea fleeting sorrow for the lost feeling of celebration.
Are you home? Eleanor, his wife, peeked from the kitchen, not waiting for an answer.
Yeah he croaked.
They had long grown accustomed to such terse evening exchanges: each occupied with his own task, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinesteady and a touch dull.
Andrew changed into his lounge wear and drifted into the kitchen, where the aroma of fresh bread lingered while Eleanor sliced vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
Just as usualyou never liked noisy gatherings Maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Dave, she suggested.
Andrew gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. His thoughts tangled: he understood Eleanors logicwhy stage a party just for show? Yet something inside rebelled against this adult thriftiness of feeling.
The evening stretched slowly; Andrew flicked through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the nagging thoughts of the next day. Still, the same question returned: why had the celebration become a formality? Why had the joy vanished?
Morning arrived with a chorus of notification chimes from work chats; colleagues sent standard birthday wishes with stickers and GIFs that read Happy Birthday! A handful added slightly warmer personal notes, but every phrase mirrored the others until they were transparent.
He reflexively typed Thanks! or dropped a smiley under each message. The emptiness only grew: Andrew found himself wanting to tuck the phone away and forget his own birthday until the following year.
Eleanor turned the kettle up a notch, the clatter trying to drown the silence at the table.
Congratulations Listen, how about ordering a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you like he replied, irritation slipping into his voice. He immediately regretted it but said nothing more. Inside, a simmering dissatisfaction with himself and the world boiled over.
Around midday Dave called.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by this evening after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ended as swiftly as it began; Andrew felt a strange fatigue from these brief contacts, as if they happened not for him but because thats what people do.
The day drifted in a halfsleep, the flat scented with coffee mingling with the dampness from the hallways wet coatsoutside, a light drizzle persisted. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept looping back to childhood, when any celebration felt like the event of the year; now it dissolved into another checkbox on the calendar.
By evening his mood had grown heavy. He finally realized, for himself alone, that he no longer wanted to endure this void for the sake of everyones calm. He didnt want to pretend, neither to his wife nor his friendlet it be awkward, even comical, to voice his feelings out loud.
When they all gathered around the lowlit table, rain drummed on the windowsill with an almost theatrical insistence, underscoring the enclosed world of their modest November night.
Andrew sat silent; his tea cooled, words refusing to form. He glanced first at Eleanor, who offered a weary smile across the table, then at Dave, who was halfimmersed in his phone, nodding faintly to a tune drifting from the next room.
And then everything snapped to a simple clarity.
Listen I have something to say.
Eleanor set her spoon down; Dave lifted his head from the screen.
I always thought it foolish to hold parties just for the sake of it but today I realised something else. The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait the whole year for a day and everything feels possible. His throat tightened with excitement.
Eleanor looked at him intently.
Do you want to try bringing it back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Dave cracked a warm grin.
So now I finally know what youve been needing all these years! he said.
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Well then, Dave rubbed his palms together, lets remember how it used to be. You once talked about a cake with frosting
Without asking, Eleanor rose and opened the fridge. There was no sponge cake, no frosting, only a packet of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. Andrew couldnt help but smile; the gesture was absurd yet utterly human. In a flash a plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk appeared. Dave pretended to contemplate the biscuits like a grand pastry.
Quick music? he asked.
Not the radioplay what our parents used to listen to, Andrew replied.
Dave fiddled with his phone while Eleanor launched an old playlist on the laptop; crackling voices from a bygone era and familiar childhood songs wove themselves into the rains chatter outside. Watching grownups improvise a domestic theatre for one of their own felt oddly comic, but the usual falseness of birthday greetings vanished. Each did what they could: Eleanor poured tea into sturdy cups, Dave clapped awkwardly to the beat, and Andrew found himself smiling without the pretense of politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Frosted windows reflected the lamps glow and the street beyond, still misty and dripping. Andrew now watched the rain differently, as if it were a distant world while his own weather gathered inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Eleanor asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad, but because we laughed too long. They tried to act it out at the tablean adult pretending to be a kangaroo in front of two other adults. After a minute, laughter turned genuine: Dave flailed his arms so wildly a teacup nearly toppled, Eleanor giggled softly, and Andrew finally let his face relax.
They recounted childhood party tales: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second help, the time a family china set shattered and no one scolded. With each memory the atmosphere shifted from a heavy cloud of formality to a cozy, warm haze. Time ceased to be an enemy.
Andrew felt that childhood sensation againeverything seemed possible, if only for one evening. He looked at Eleanor with gratitude for her simple care, and caught Daves eyes across the table, finding understanding without mockery.
The music stopped abruptly. Outside, occasional car headlights skimmed the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light amid the grey autumn.
Eleanor poured more tea.
Ive still done it a bit differently but the point isnt the script, is it? she asked.
Andrew nodded silently.
He recalled his morning dread, the fear that the day would inevitably disappoint. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or gratitude; no one pushed for cheer just to tick a box on a family calendar.
Dave pulled an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really going back in time! he declared.
They played late into the night, arguing over rules and laughing at each others absurd moves. Outside, the rain fell in a lullaby.
Eventually the three sat quietly beneath the lamps soft glow. Crumbs of biscuits and an empty jamstained mug lay scattereda testament to their modest feast.
Andrew realised he no longer needed to prove anything to himself or anyone else. The celebration returned not because someone concocted a perfect plan or bought the right cake, but because the people around him were ready to hear him truly.
He turned to Eleanor.
Thank you he whispered.
She answered with a smile that reached only her eyes.
Inside, peace settledno euphoria, no forced joy, just the right feeling for the right evening among the right people. Outside, the rainslick city went on its own business; inside, warmth and light lingered.
Andrew rose, walked to the window, and watched the puddles mirror the streetlamps. The rain fell slowly, lazily, as if exhausted from a day of arguing with November. He thought of the childhood miraclealways a simple act of closehanded love.
That night he drifted to sleep easily, without the urge to forget his own birthday.
