I met Cian because I was late, which is not a romantic thing to admit, but it is true. I was running for the 46A outside St Stephen’s Green, one shoe half off, my coffee spilling onto my sleeve, when he held the bus door with the confidence of a man who had never been shouted at by a driver. I thanked him, breathless and embarrassed, and he said, “That’s all right. I’ve always wanted to be someone’s grand gesture.”
For three weeks after that, we saw each other in small pieces of the city. He worked in a bookshop near Dawson Street and I worked in an office where nobody looked out the window. We had lunch twice, both times standing under awnings in the rain, and once he walked me as far as the Luas even though it was the wrong direction for him. It was easy with him in a way that frightened me. I had been single for four years after a long relationship that ended quietly, without drama, which somehow made it harder to explain. I had become good at going home alone, making one portion of pasta, and pretending I preferred the whole bed to myself.
Our first proper date was a Thursday in October. He picked the Chester Beatty because, he said, it was impossible to be bored in a place full of beautiful things people had carried across centuries. We looked at manuscripts and tiny painted faces, and he told me he liked museums because everyone whispered, even about love. Afterwards we went for ramen on South William Street, then wandered without a plan, as if Dublin had been laid out just for two people delaying goodbye.
I remember ridiculous details. The orange light on the wet footpath. His scarf, which was green and too long. The way he bought a packet of lemon sweets from a newsagent because his granny used to keep them in her handbag. At the Ha’penny Bridge, he gave me one and said, “Right, this is the official sweet of our first date.” I laughed and told him he was very sure there would be a second. He looked at me then, not in a dramatic film way, but softly, like he had found somewhere to rest his eyes. “I’m hoping this is the first of many,” he said.
We ended up in Grogan’s because the rain came down hard and sudden. It was packed, of course. We stood near the door with our coats still damp, sharing a toasted sandwich on a small plate. He told me about his younger sister, Maeve, who was doing her Leaving Cert and thought he was deeply uncool. I told him about my father, who had died the year before, and how grief had made me impatient with small talk. He listened properly. Not waiting for his turn. Not trying to fix it. Just listening, his hand around
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
