I met her on a wet Thursday evening outside Connolly Station, the kind of Dublin rain that does not fall so much as lean into you. I was standing under the awning…
I used to think fiction was a safe place to hide. You could change a name, move a street, give someone a different coat, and nobody would know which part was true…
I met her because I was too proud to run in the rain. It was one of those Dublin evenings where the sky looked bruised from lunchtime and still managed to surprise…
I was fifty-one the morning I saw her again, standing under the clock in Connolly Station with a small red suitcase and the same careful way of holding herself, as if the…
I met Clara on a wet Tuesday evening outside Trinity College Dublin, both of us standing under the same thin shop awning, pretending our umbrellas had not betrayed us. She was from…
I was twenty-eight, living in a flat near Rathmines, and pretending I was grand at a level that deserved an award. My mother had died the previous winter, my job in town…
I came to Dublin with a ring on my finger and left with it wrapped in a receipt from a chemist on Westmoreland Street. It sounds dramatic now, like the sort of…
I met Clara on a wet Thursday outside Whelan’s, both of us pretending we weren’t waiting for the same taxi. She had a green coat, a cigarette she never lit, and a…
I met Anna in the queue for coffee near St Stephen’s Green, both of us pretending not to be annoyed by the rain. She had a green scarf wrapped around her hair…
We met on a wet Thursday in November, which is to say we met in Dublin in the usual way: both pretending the rain wasn’t bothering us. I was standing outside Grogan’s…