Blake left for the Halle Open on a Monday morning.
Andre drove him to Heathrow, pulling up to the terminal drop-off, the engine idling while Blake gathered his bags from the trunk. They stood on the kerb for a moment, surrounded by the rush of taxis and luggage trolleys, and kissed with the practiced ease of two people who had learned to manage the constant separations of professional tennis. Blake would be gone for ten days — Halle, then straight to Eastbourne for another grass-court tune-up before Wimbledon.
“Call me tonight,” Blake said, his hand lingering on Andre’s jaw.
“I always call you.”
“You called me at midnight last time. I was asleep.”
“You answered.”
“I always answer.” Blake kissed him once more, quick and firm, then pulled away, shouldering his racket bag.
“Don’t forget to eat. And don’t let Pierre guilt you into working the counter again.”
“That was one time.”
“You smelled like sourdough for three days.”
Andre watched him disappear through security, the familiar ache of separation settling into his chest. It never got easier, no matter how many times they did it. The flat would feel too large tonight, the bed too wide, the silence too complete.
He drove back to the studio, parked on The Cut, and walked to the cafe for his afternoon coffee. He ordered his usual — a double espresso, no sugar — and sat at a table near the door, scrolling through his phone.
The idea had been forming for days, ever since he’d seen the Old Vic t-shirt. It was a Tuesday. The Old Vic’s website showed a matinee performance of The Crucible at two thirty.
Andre looked at his watch. It was one fifteen.
He finished his coffee, walked around the corner to the theatre, and bought a single ticket in the upper circle for twenty-two pounds.
The interior of the Old Vic was beautiful in a way that reminded Andre of the old churches his grandmother had taken him to as a child — high ceilings, ornate moldings, a sense of history pressed into every surface. The auditorium was intimate despite its size, the seats arranged in a steep horseshoe that brought the audience close to the stage.
Andre settled into his seat, the program resting on his knee, and waited.
The lights dimmed. The audience quieted. And the play began.
It was a powerful production — spare, intense, the actors filling the stripped-back stage with nothing but their voices and their bodies. Andre was drawn in immediately, the story of Salem’s witch trials resonating with something deep and personal — the terror of accusation, the cost of refusing to conform, the way a community could turn on its own.
He spotted them in the second act.
The man — the ginger-haired man from the cafe — appeared as one of the townspeople, a small but vivid role that required him to deliver a handful of lines with convincing fear and moral confusion. He was good. Not spectacular, not the kind of performance that would make critics reach for superlatives, but solid, committed, present.
The woman appeared shortly after, playing a servant girl caught up in the hysteria. Her role was even smaller — perhaps ten lines in total — but she delivered them with a quiet, trembling intensity that made Andre lean forward in his seat.
He felt an unexpected swell of pride. It was irrational — he didn’t know these people, had never spoken a word to them. But he had watched them for weeks in the cafe, had constructed an entire imaginary life for them based on stolen glances and overheard laughter. Seeing them on stage, doing the thing they had clearly devoted their lives to, felt like watching friends succeed.
After the curtain call, Andre walked out into the grey London afternoon, his mind buzzing. He wanted to go backstage, to introduce himself, to tell them he’d been watching them at the cafe for weeks.
But that, he realized, would sound insane.
So he went back to his studio and painted for four hours straight, the energy of the performance still vibrating in his veins.
A week passed.
Blake called every night from Germany, his voice tired but happy. He had won his first two matches at Halle, beating a young Italian in straight sets and then grinding out a three-set victory over a tricky left-hander from Argentina. He was moving well on the grass, his serve was firing, and Doug was cautiously optimistic.
“I miss you,” Blake said, his voice low and private in the late-night quiet.
“I miss you too. The bed is ridiculous without you.”
