I knew the kiss was a mistake before it happened. That is the awful thing about some mistakes: they announce themselves, quietly and clearly, and you still walk towards them as if…

I met him on a wet Thursday outside the Abbey Theatre, when the rain was coming down sideways and everyone at the bus stop looked personally betrayed by the sky. He offered…

I had my whole life folded into one blue suitcase at Dublin Airport, and still I was mostly thinking about a half-empty carton of milk in the fridge. That’s the strange thing…

The last hug I remember as a man without a child happened in a corridor of the Rotunda Hospital, under lights too bright for three in the morning. My wife, Niamh, was…

I met Conor on a wet Tuesday in Smithfield, the kind of evening where Dublin looks like it has been rubbed with silver. I was standing outside the Luas stop with a…

I used to believe love announced itself loudly, with certainty, like a song starting in a pub when everyone already knew the words. By the winter I turned thirty-four, I had stopped…