Our story began on a wet Thursday night outside Whelan’s, with my fringe stuck to my forehead and my pride somewhere around my ankles. I was twenty-nine, recently dumped, and pretending to be the kind of woman who went to gigs alone because she was mysterious and independent. The truth was uglier. My ex was playing bass that night, and I had bought a ticket because I wanted to see if he looked happier without me.
Inside, the place was warm and loud, smelling of raincoats, beer, and old wood. I stood near the bar trying to look casual, which is impossible when you are emotionally spying on someone. A man beside me asked if I was there for the band. He had kind eyes, the sort that made you feel you should tell the truth, so naturally I panicked and lied.
“Yeah,” I said. “The drummer’s my brother.”
He smiled. “No way. Conor?”
I should have stopped then. I should have laughed and said, “Sorry, I’m actually here because I have no dignity.” Instead I nodded like a fool. “Yeah. Conor.”
The man’s name was Eoin. He told me he knew Conor from college, which made the lie immediately dangerous. I spent the next hour inventing a childhood for a stranger’s drummer. I said Conor had always tapped on biscuit tins, that our mother used to threaten him with wooden spoons, that he once broke a lamp practising a solo. Eoin listened with a half-smile, buying me a drink I didn’t deserve, asking questions I had no right to answer.
The worst part was that I liked him. He was gentle without being boring, funny without needing applause. He had paint under one fingernail and told me he restored old sash windows around Dublin. He said he loved the city most in winter, when the Liffey looked like a strip of dark tin and everyone walked faster but somehow lingered longer in doorways. I remember thinking, this is exactly the kind of person I would have wanted to meet if I hadn’t come here for the wrong reason.
Then my ex walked onstage. My stomach dropped. He looked the same and not the same. Same black shirt, same careful hair, same way of tuning his bass as if the whole room had been built for him. Beside me, Eoin leaned in and said, “Which one’s your brother again?”
My mouth went dry. “The drummer,” I said, because apparently I had chosen death.
The gig passed in a blur. I clapped at the wrong moments. I watched my ex laugh at something the singer said and realised I had been holding onto the idea that he was miserable, that my absence had left some visible
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
