We broke up at half three on a wet Tuesday, sitting in my parked car near St Stephen’s Green, with the wipers moving like they were trying to keep time with our courage. It wasn’t dramatic. There was no shouting, no slammed door, no one saying something unforgivable. That was nearly the worst part. We were kind to each other. We were so kind it took us an hour to admit we were finished.
The problem was that the next night was our fifth anniversary. We had booked a table weeks earlier in a small Italian place off South William Street, the kind of place with candles stuck into old wine bottles and staff who remember if you like parmesan. I said we should cancel. Daniel said we’d lose the deposit. I said losing forty euro was cheaper than losing our minds. He laughed, and then I laughed, and for a second we sounded like ourselves again. That was how we decided, foolishly and tenderly, to go anyway.
I spent Wednesday evening getting ready like I was preparing for a performance. I put on the green dress he always said made my eyes look brighter, then took it off because it felt like lying, then put it back on because everything felt like lying anyway. On the Luas into town, I watched other people’s reflections in the glass and wondered how many of them were going somewhere they didn’t want to go, wearing the right clothes for the wrong life.
Daniel was already outside when I arrived, standing under the awning with his hands in the pockets of his good coat. He had bought me flowers from a shop near Grafton Street. Not roses, thank God, but tulips, slightly battered by the rain. He said, “Happy anniversary,” and I said it back, and we both looked embarrassed, as if the words had caught us stealing.
Inside, the waiter smiled at us like we were exactly what we appeared to be. A couple celebrating five years. He brought prosecco we hadn’t ordered and said it was on the house. Daniel raised his glass and said, “To us,” but softly, like he didn’t want the words to travel too far. I clinked his glass and tried not to cry into free bubbles.
For the first half hour, we did a strange, careful version of romance. We talked about work, about the price of rent, about a seagull that had stolen half his sandwich near the office. We avoided the big things the way you avoid cracks in a footpath. Then an older couple at the next table asked how long we’d been together. Daniel said five years. The woman pressed her hand to her chest and said, “Ah, that’s lovely. You can tell when people are happy.”
I nearly laughed, but Daniel looked down at his plate, and something in me softened. We had been happy. That was the part I didn’t want to throw away just because it had ended. We had been happy in queues outside Vicar Street, in takeaway places at midnight, in the first flat we rented with mould over the bedroom window. We had been happy carrying a mattress up three flights of stairs in Rathmines and arguing over which side of the bed belonged to whom. The ending didn’t cancel all that came before it.
After dessert, Daniel took a small envelope from his pocket and pushed it across the table. I told him I couldn’t accept a present. He said it wasn’t that kind of present. Inside was a photo booth strip from our first date, taken in a bar on Dame Lane. In the first photo we were awkward. In the second we were laughing. In the third he was looking at me while I looked at the camera. In the fourth, we
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
