I met him on a wet Thursday outside The Cobblestone in Smithfield, both of us standing under the same narrow strip of shelter, pretending the rain was not coming in sideways. He offered me half his umbrella and told me he was waiting for a friend who was always late. I was waiting for a taxi I couldn’t afford. By the time his friend arrived and my taxi cancelled, we had talked about our mothers, bad coffee, and how Dublin makes strangers of you until it suddenly doesn’t.
For nearly a year after that, he was everywhere. He texted good morning before I had even opened both eyes. He brought soup to my flat in Stoneybatter when I had the flu. He waited outside my office on Baggot Street with a paper cup of tea because he said no one should have to take the bus home sad. He remembered the anniversary of my father’s death after I mentioned it once, quietly, in passing. He was careful and funny and patient. Or at least I thought that was what patience looked like.
I had come out of a long relationship the year before, the kind that ended without shouting, which somehow made it harder to explain. I told him I wasn’t ready. He said he wasn’t going anywhere. I told him I needed time. He said time suited him. He wrote me little notes on the backs of receipts and left them in my coat pockets. He took me walking in the Phoenix Park and never tried to hold my hand until I reached for his first. When I hesitated, he smiled like he had all the faith in the world.
My friends loved him. My sister said, “That man is mad about you,” as if that settled it. Maybe I wanted it to. There is a particular loneliness in your thirties in Dublin, even when the streets are full and the pubs are loud. Everyone seems to be building something with someone: buying couches, choosing tiles, complaining about creches. I was tired of being careful. I was tired of being the woman who needed more time.
The night I said yes, we were on the Ha’penny Bridge. It was cold enough that my fingers hurt, and the Liffey looked black beneath us. He had asked me, not dramatically, not with a ring, just with both hands around mine, “Will you let me love you properly now?” It sounds ridiculous written down, but at the time it felt like being chosen in a city where everyone is always leaving somewhere. I said yes. I said I was ready. His face changed so quickly I almost missed it. The joy came first, bright and boyish. Then something else, like a door closing softly inside him.
For the first week, he was tender in a way that made me embarrassed by my own happiness. He stayed over, made toast in my kitchen, learned which mug I liked. Then the messages slowed. Good morning became “mad day ahead.” Plans became maybe. When I asked if everything was alright, he kissed my forehead and said I was overthinking. That word followed me around for months, overthinking, like a small cruel bell.
He cancelled my birthday dinner two hours before it, saying he was exhausted. I saw later, because Dublin is a village wearing a capital city’s coat, that he had been in a bar near Camden Street with lads from work. When I asked him about it, he looked hurt that I had checked. “I didn’t know I needed permission,” he said. I apologised before I even knew what I was apologising for.
By Christmas, the man who once waited in rain for me sighed when I asked if he would come to my sister’s house in Clontarf. He said
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
