I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Whelan’s, the kind of rain that makes everyone in Dublin look like they are running late for something more important. I had gone to see a friend’s band and stepped out during the support act because the room was too warm and my head was too full. He was standing under the awning, trying to light a cigarette that kept dying in the wind. He laughed at himself before I did, and that was the first thing I liked about him.
We started talking about the band, then about work, then about how neither of us was from the city originally but both of us had come to think of Dublin as the place where our lives had properly begun. He was easy to talk to. Not charming in a polished way, but attentive. He remembered small details five minutes after I said them. When my friend came out looking for me, he asked for my number, and I gave it without thinking too much.
Two days later, we met for coffee near St Stephen’s Green. It was only when he reached into his bag for his wallet that I saw a small velvet ring box fall out and land between us on the floor. He picked it up quickly, too quickly. His face changed. I remember the sound of the café around us continuing as normal while everything at our table stopped.
“I’m engaged,” he said.
I should have stood up then. That is what I used to tell myself for a long time afterwards. Instead, I sat there with my hands wrapped around a cup of coffee I no longer wanted, listening as he explained. They had been together six years. The wedding was planned for the following spring. He loved her, he said, but lately he felt like he was walking towards a life that belonged to someone else. He wasn’t saying this to make an excuse. He just looked tired, and frightened of his own honesty.
I told him I couldn’t be part of whatever confusion he was in. I said it firmly, though my voice shook. He nodded and apologised. We walked out together and parted at the corner, him towards Grafton Street, me towards the Luas, both of us pretending the conversation had not left a mark.
But it had. For weeks, I thought about him at ridiculous times. On the bus. In the supermarket. Passing pubs on Camden Street where I imagined him sitting with friends, laughing like a normal man with a normal life. He texted once to say sorry again. I didn’t reply. Not because I was strong, but because I knew I wasn’t.
Three months later, I saw him across the road near Temple Bar. He was with a woman I assumed was his fiancée. She was beautiful, with a red scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, and she was crying. He looked wrecked. I turned away before he saw me, but that image stayed with me longer than the first night outside Whelan’s. It made him real. It made her real. It took the romance out of the situation and left only people who could be hurt.
Almost a year passed before we spoke again. I was working in a bookshop then, and he came in on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. He looked different. Thinner, maybe. Softer around the eyes. He didn’t pretend to be surprised to see me. He said he had hoped I might still work there.
He told me the engagement had ended the previous summer. Not because of me, he said, and I
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
