Dima

The dial tone on the phone sounded like a lifeline.

"That's it. Tomorrow at seven. Your favorite 'Cozy Place,'" Dima's voice brooked no argument.

You wanted to refuse. This week had drained you dry: a rush at work with a looming deadline, a broken kettle, and the perpetually damp roof of the dacha outside the city that your father had decided to repair right now. You felt like a squeezed lemon that had just been run over by a truck.

But Dima is an old-school friend. He knows when you need not advice, but just silence.

You met when the sun had already set, leaving purple streaks across the sky. At a table by the window, he silently pushed a mug of steaming mulled wine toward you. No "how are you?", no sympathetic sighs. He simply sat down across from you and asked:
— Will you have a Caesar salad or, as usual, the dangerous burger hellish mixture?
You grimaced. The first one in seven days.

While the waiter was bringing your order, Dima was telling you how his cat had declared war on the vacuum cleaner the previous day, knocked over the laundry basket, and then pretended it was an earthquake. You were only half-listening, but for some reason, your chest began to tighten. The hot bread and butter, the noise at the next table, the salt on the tablecloth—all of it brought you back to reality, where there were no damned reports or leaky roofs.

"By the way, I called your boss," Dima suddenly said, munching on his French fries. "I said you'll be unavailable on Monday. We're going to fix this dacha together. You'll just be handing me a hammer and swearing. That's all."