Every Tuesday morning, I used to get off the Luas at St Stephen’s Green and walk down towards Grafton Street with the same tight feeling in my chest. My mam had an appointment nearby for her treatment, and although she was brave in the way Irish mothers are, by saying things like “sure we’ll be grand” while gripping your hand hard enough to leave marks, I was not grand at all. Before meeting her, I would stop at a small café and order the same thing: an oat cappuccino, extra hot, no chocolate, and a plain croissant I rarely finished.
The first time he noticed me, I did not notice him back. I was too busy trying not to cry into my purse because my Leap Card had gone missing and I had spilled half a bottle of water inside my bag. He was standing ahead of me in the queue, tall, dark coat, hair still wet from the rain. When the barista asked for my order, he turned slightly and said, “She gets the oat cappuccino, extra hot, no chocolate.” Then he looked embarrassed, as if he had accidentally read my diary aloud.
I must have stared at him like he’d stolen my identity. He smiled and said, “Sorry. You’re here every Tuesday. I’m not a stalker. Just boringly observant.”
I laughed for the first time in weeks. Not a big laugh, but enough that my shoulders dropped. He paid for my coffee before I could stop him, took his own black Americano, and disappeared towards Dawson Street with the sort of hurried walk that said he was late for something important. I did not even know his name.
The next Tuesday, he was there again. Same coat, same wet hair, same Americano. He asked, “How was the croissant last week? Still mostly ornamental?” I told him it had made a lovely decoration for the table. He said his name was Ciarán. I told him mine was Aoife. That was all. No dramatic music, no instant thunderbolt. Just two people in a queue while Dublin rain tapped at the windows.
For months, Tuesday became the day I both dreaded and waited for. I dreaded the hospital smell on my mam’s scarf, the blood tests, the careful optimism of doctors, the way my dad would text me three question marks if I did not update him quickly enough. But I waited for the café. I waited for Ciarán to glance up from his phone and say, “The usual?” as if my small, ridiculous coffee order was something worth keeping safe.
He never asked too much. That was what made me trust him. He did not demand the full story or try to fix my life with cheerful advice. He told me about his work restoring old windows in Georgian houses, about a dog he wanted but could not have because his landlord in Rathmines was “allergic to joy,” about the best toasted sandwich he swore existed somewhere near Camden Street. In return, I told him little pieces of the truth. My mam was sick. I was frightened. I hated being the capable eldest daughter. Some mornings, I wanted to be the one minded for a change.
One Tuesday in November, I arrived late and soaked through. Mam’s scan results had come back better than expected, not perfect, not a miracle, but better. I had cried outside the clinic, then laughed, then cried again. By the time I reached the café, the morning rush was almost over. Ciarán was sitting by the window with two cups in front of him. Mine had a little cardboard sleeve with my name written on it, though the barista had spelled it “Eefa
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
