I was twenty-seven when I realised I had built an entire life in Dublin that my parents only knew in edited pieces. They knew about my job near Grand Canal Dock, the…
I met Aoife because her brother had one digit wrong in his phone. That is the least romantic sentence I know, but it is the truth. I was standing outside Tara Street…
Niamh and I met when I was twenty-three, outside a pub in Temple Bar, both of us pretending we had only stepped out for air. I was all noise then. I wore…
I met him again because of a broken umbrella. That is the ordinary truth of it. I was outside St Stephen’s Green on a wet Thursday evening, trying to force the spokes…
I met her on a wet Tuesday outside Connolly Station, both of us pretending not to be bothered by the rain. She had a paper bag of chips from somewhere near Amiens…
I met Aoife on a wet Thursday evening outside the Abbey Theatre, both of us pretending we were too grown up to be bothered by the rain. She had no umbrella. I…
On the Friday before our wedding, my fiancée took off her ring in the kitchen and placed it beside the toaster as carefully as if it were hot. We were living in…
For years, I thought happiness was a thing you protected by keeping everything in place. The house in Cabra. The same job in a hotel near St Stephen’s Green. Sunday dinner with…
I met Ciarán on a wet Tuesday in Dublin, the kind of rain that makes everyone look down and hurry. I was twenty-six, working in a bookshop near Trinity, and he came…