Evening for myself
Andrew Clarke walks home down a dark lane where puddles, halfhidden by fallen leaves, glint under the occasional streetlamp. Late autumn in the North of England isnt meant for strolls: a damp wind seeps to the bone, and the houses feel especially distant and indifferent. He picks up his pace as if trying to flee an invisible weight that has hovered over him since the morning. Tomorrow is his birthdaya date he habitually pretends not to notice.
Inside, a familiar tension builds: not a joyful anticipation but a thick, heavy feeling, like a clenched knot in his chest. Every year brings the same routineformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, obligatory smiles. It all feels like a foreign play where he must act the birthday honoree, even though he no longer feels that way.
Once, things were different. As a child, Andrew would rise early and wait for the day with his heart pounding, believing in a small miraclethe smell of a homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, his mothers warm voice, and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then, congratulations were genuine, accompanied by real laughter and bustling activity. Now those memories surface rarely and always leave a faint ache.
He lifts the flats door and the chilly air slaps his face harder. The hallway greets him with the usual mess: a damp umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped on hooks. Andrew slips off his shoes and pauses before the mirror; his reflection shows weeks of fatigue and something elsea fleeting sorrow for the lost feeling of celebration.
Did you get home alright? Eleanor, his wife, peeks out of the kitchen before he can answer.
Yeah he mutters.
Theyve grown accustomed to these brief evening exchanges: each tends to their own tasks, meeting only for dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family runs on routinereliable and a touch boring.
Andrew changes into his lounge clothes and heads to the kitchen, where the scent of fresh bread fills the air; Eleanor is slicing vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asks almost flatly.
As always, you dont fancy noisy crowds Maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Jamie, she replies.
Andrew nods silently and pours himself a mug of tea. Thoughts swirl: he understands Eleanors logicwhy stage a celebration just for the sake of it? Yet something inside protests against this adult frugality of feelings.
The evening drags on; Andrew scrolls through news on his phone, trying to distract himself from the persistent thoughts about tomorrow. Still, the question returns: why has a birthday become a formality? Why has joy vanished?
In the morning his phone erupts with a cascade of workchat notifications; colleagues send standard birthday stickers and GIFs with Happy Birthday! A handful type slightly warmer personal notes, but the words blend into each other until theyre almost transparent.
He replies mechanically with Thanks! or a smiley. The emptiness deepens: he finds himself wanting to shove the phone away and forget his own birthday until next year.
Eleanor turns up the kettle a notch louder, trying to mask the silence at the table.
Happy birthday How about we order a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont want to be stuck at the stove all day, she suggests.
Whatever you like, Andrew answers, a note of irritation slipping into his tone. He instantly regrets it but says nothing more. Inside, a simmering frustration with himself and the world bubbles.
Around midday Jamie calls.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later? he asks.
Yeah swing by after work, Andrew replies.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The conversation ends as quickly as it began; Andrew feels an odd fatigue from these brief contacts, as if they happen not for him but because theyre expected.
The whole day passes in a halfsleep haze; the flat smells of coffee mixed with the dampness from the wet coats in the hallwayoutside, rain still drizzles. Andrew tries to work from home, but his mind keeps drifting back to childhood: back then any celebration was the event of the year; now it dissolves into another checkbox on the calendar.
By evening his mood has turned heavy. He finally realizes he cant keep tolerating this void for the sake of others peace. He doesnt want to pretend in front of Eleanor or Jamie even if it feels awkward or silly to voice his feelings aloud.
When they finally gather around the small kitchen table under the soft glow of a lamp, rain drums on the windows louder than usual, underscoring the tightness of their little world on a November night.
Andrew stays silent for a long while; his tea cools, and words refuse to form. He looks first at Eleanor she offers a tired smile across the table then at Jamie, who is glued to his phone, nodding faintly to music drifting from the next room.
And then, simply:
Listen Ive got something to say.
Eleanor sets her spoon down; Jamie lifts his head from the screen.
Ive always thought it silly to celebrate just for the sake of it but today Ive realized something else.
The room goes quiet so sharply that even the rain seems louder.
I miss a real celebration the childhood feeling when you wait all year for a day and everything feels possible.
He swallows, his throat tightening with emotion.
Eleanor meets his gaze: Do you want to try and bring that back?
Andrew nods almost imperceptibly.
Jamie grins warmly: Now I finally get why youve been brooding all these years!
A lightness lifts in Andrews chest.
Alright, Jamie says, rubbing his palms, lets remember how it used to be. You used to talk about that cake with frosting
Without asking, Eleanor heads to the fridge. Theres no sponge cake or frosting, but she pulls out a pack of simple biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew cant help but smile; the gesture is clumsy yet profoundly human. On the table appear the biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of sweetened condensed milk. Jamie jokes, holding his hands to his chin:
Quick cake! Got any candles?
Eleanor rummages through a drawer of odds and ends and finds the stub of a paraffin candle. She snips it in half crooked but real and sticks it atop a mound of biscuits. Andrew watches this modest, unpretentious spread and feels a faint buzz of anticipation.
Music? Jamie asks.
Not the radio something our parents used to play, Andrew replies.
Jamie fiddles with his phone while Eleanor cues an old playlist on her laptop. Voices from a bygone era fill the room, familiar childhood tunes mingling with the rains roar outside. Its oddly funny to watch adults suddenly perform a homemade theatre for one person, but the usual pretense of birthday cards disappears. Everyone does what they know: Eleanor pours tea into thick mugs, Jamie claps awkwardly to the beat, Andrew finds himself smiling for genuine reasons, not courtesy.
The flat feels warmer. Fogged windows reflect the lamps light and the streets occasional passing cars; beyond the glass the drizzle continues. Andrew now watches the rain differently: its somewhere far away, while his own little weather gathers inside.
Remember the game Crocodile? Eleanor asks suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
It wasnt because I was bad at acting! We just laughed too long.
They try the game at the table. At first it feels odd an adult pretending to be a kangaroo for two other adults but after a minute the laughter becomes real: Jamie flails his arms almost knocking the tea mug over, Eleanor giggles softly, and Andrew finally lets his face relax.
They reminisce about childhood parties: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second serving, how once they broke Moms china and no one scolded them. Each memory chips away at the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with coziness and warmth. Time stops feeling like an enemy.
Andrew suddenly experiences that childhood sensation again that everything seems possible, even if just for one night. He looks at Eleanor with gratitude for her quiet care, catches Jamies eye across the table, and sees understanding without sarcasm.
The music ends abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights glide over the wet pavement. The flat feels like an island of light in the dreary autumn.
Eleanor refills the tea: Ive still managed to do it a bit differently but isnt the point the story, not the script?
Andrew nods silently.
He recalls his morning dread, as if a birthday must disappoint or slip by unnoticed. Now it appears a distant misunderstanding. No one expects perfect reactions or gratitude, and no one pushes him toward merriment just to tick a box on the family calendar.
Jamie pulls an old board game from a cupboard: Now were really going back in time!
They play late into the night, debating rules and laughing at each others silly moves. The rain outside taps a lullaby.
Later the three sit quietly beneath the lamps soft glow. Crumbs of biscuits litter the table, and the jam mug sits empty remnants of their impromptu feast.
Andrew suddenly realises he no longer needs to prove anything to anyone. The celebration returns not because someone invented a perfect plan or bought the right cake, but because the people beside him are ready to hear him truly.
He looks at Eleanor: Thank you
She answers with a smile in her eyes.
Inside, calm settles no euphoria, no forced cheer, just the contentment of a rightplace, righttime evening with his own people. Outside, the wet city lives its own life; inside, warmth and light remain.
Andrew rises, walks to the window. Puddles mirror the streetlamps; the rain falls slowly, as if weary from a day of arguing with November. He thinks of the childhood wonder always simple, always created by close hands.
That night he drifts to sleep easily without the urge to rush past his own birthday.
