I used to write in a small black journal on the number 16 bus, mostly because it was the only place in Dublin where nobody expected anything from me. I’d sit upstairs,…

I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Whelan’s, when the rain had turned Camden Street silver and everyone was pretending they didn’t mind being soaked. I was there for a…

I met Aoife in a queue outside a café near Grafton Street, both of us pretending we were patient people while rain slipped down the back of our coats. She was reading…

I used to think love was the way he looked for my hand in crowded places. On Camden Street after a gig in Whelan’s, in the rain outside the Luas stop, in…

I was twenty-three when Ciarán left Dublin, which is a terrible age to be noble about anything. He got a job in Toronto, and we stood outside Connolly Station with two coffees…

We rented a one-bedroom apartment in Rialto because it was the only place we could afford that didn’t smell of damp. The kitchen was barely big enough for two people to stand…

I met Niamh on a wet Tuesday outside Connolly Station, both of us sheltering under the same broken awning, both pretending we weren’t soaked through. I was carrying a guitar case I’d…

I met Cian outside The Cobblestone on a wet Thursday in Smithfield, both of us pretending we were not waiting for the same late friend. He offered me a cigarette even though…