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 thirty-four when I met Conor, and old enough to know the difference between loneliness and love, though I still confused them some evenings. We met outside The Cobblestone in Smithfield,…
The last time I saw her was at Heuston Station, standing beneath the big clock with a paper cup of tea cooling in her hands. She had always been early for trains…
I met him on a Tuesday morning outside the Capuchin Day Centre on Bow Street, when I had exactly twelve euro in my pocket and nowhere I was proud to be going.…
I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Pearse Station, the kind of Dublin rain that doesn’t fall so much as settle on you. I had missed my Dart to Blackrock…
I met him on a Tuesday evening in a queue outside Grogan’s, both of us pretending we weren’t cold. It was one of those Dublin evenings where the rain doesn’t fall so…
I cancelled my wedding three weeks before I was meant to walk down the aisle, and for a long time people filled in the blanks with whatever story suited them. Some said…
I met her through a pane of glass in Smithfield, in the second spring of the pandemic, when Dublin had gone quiet in a way I had never heard before. I was…