I met him because I was too stubborn to buy a new umbrella. It was one of those Dublin evenings when the rain seemed to come from every direction at once, blowing sideways across Dublin like it had somewhere urgent to be. I had finished a late shift near St Stephen’s Green and was walking towards the Luas with my hood pulled so tight I could barely see. At the corner, outside a small newsagent, I noticed a black umbrella leaning against the wall. It had a wooden handle, old-fashioned and polished from use. I waited a minute, looking around like its owner might appear from the rain, but nobody did.
I told myself I was only borrowing it until I got home. Then, in the morning, guilt got the better of me. There was a small silver plate on the handle with the initials E.M. engraved on it. I went back to the same newsagent before work, half expecting the umbrella’s owner to be standing there, furious and soaked. Instead, the man behind the counter said, “Ah, that belongs to the quiet fella who buys mint chewing gum every Tuesday.” That was all he knew.
So the following Tuesday, I arrived early and stood across the road holding the umbrella like a bouquet. I felt ridiculous. At twenty-nine, I had survived breakups, rent increases, office politics, and my mother asking when I’d “settle,” but somehow returning an umbrella made me nervous. Around half six, a man in a navy coat walked in. When he came out with a packet of chewing gum in his hand, I stepped forward and said, “Are you E.M.?”
He looked at me as if I’d asked if he was a spy. Then he saw the umbrella and his face changed completely. “I thought I’d lost that forever,” he said. His name was Eoin. He thanked me twice, then a third time, and because the rain had started again, he opened the umbrella above both of us. We walked as far as the Luas stop together. He was a librarian in Rathmines, originally from Sligo, and had the kind of voice that made ordinary things sound considered. Before I got on my tram, he said, “I feel I should at least buy you a coffee for being honest.”
I almost said no. I had become good at saying no before people could disappoint me. But something about the umbrella, the absurdity of it, made me say yes. We met that Saturday in a café near George’s Street Arcade. He arrived ten minutes early and had already found a table by the window. I remember thinking that he looked like someone who had made peace with being gentle, which is rarer than you’d think.
We didn’t fall in love dramatically. There were no grand speeches, no running through airports, no rain-soaked declarations, even though Dublin gave us plenty of weather for it. We learned each other slowly. He hated coriander, loved old maps, and read the end of books first because suspense made him anxious. I could not keep a houseplant alive, sang badly when I cooked, and had a habit of leaving parties without saying goodbye. He noticed things without making me feel watched. I teased him without making him feel small.
For eight months, the umbrella became our private joke. If we argued, one of us would say, “Careful now, I know where you leave your valuables.” If we passed the newsagent, we’d salute it. Then my father got sick, and everything light in my life suddenly felt breakable. I started missing calls. I cancelled dinners. I became sharp with Eoin because he was safe enough to be sharp with, which is not fair, but grief is rarely fair in the moment.
One evening, after a long day in Beaumont Hospital, I told him I didn’t have room for a relationship. We were standing near the canal in Portobello. He had brought me soup in a flask, and I hated him for being kind when I wanted permission to collapse. He listened without interrupting. Then he handed me the umbrella. “Keep it,” he said. “You’ll bring it back if you want to.” He walked away before I could say
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
