I met him on a wet Thursday evening outside Kehoe’s, when Dublin had that silver look it gets after rain, all shining footpaths and taxi lights. I was trying to open an umbrella that had already given up on me, and he was standing under the awning with a pint in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other, smiling like he had been expecting me.
“That umbrella has seen better days,” he said.
I should have rolled my eyes and walked on. Instead, I laughed, because he said it gently, not like a man trying to be clever. His name was Cian. He was from Phibsborough, worked in a bookshop near Grafton Street, and had the kind of face that looked ordinary at first, then became impossible to forget the longer you looked at it. We ended up sharing a table inside because the place was packed and, somehow, two strangers talking over the noise felt easier than sitting alone with my own thoughts.
I had just come out of a long relationship that had ended so quietly it almost felt more humiliating than if there had been shouting. My ex had simply stopped choosing me, one small day at a time. I told Cian none of this at first. We talked about safe things: bad landlords, the best chips after midnight, the madness of trying to cross Dame Street when everyone is looking at their phone. He told me he loved the city most early in the morning, before it had put its armour on.
That line stayed with me.
Later, when the pub was closing and the rain had softened to mist, we walked towards St Stephen’s Green. I remember the smell of wet leaves and hot food from a takeaway nearby. I remember him offering me his scarf without making a big performance of it. We stopped at the corner, where I should have said goodnight and gone home to my flat in Rathmines, but neither of us moved.
He kissed me once. Not dramatic, not drunken, not like something from a film. Just one careful kiss, warm and certain, as if he was asking a question and answering it at the same time. Then he pulled back and looked almost embarrassed by his own courage.
“I’d like to see you again,” he said.
I said yes. I gave him my number. He typed it in, called me so I’d have his, and then we went opposite ways into the wet city.
For the next three days, I thought about that kiss so much I annoyed myself. I thought about it while waiting for the Luas. I thought about it in Tesco, holding a bag of spinach I didn’t want. I thought about it at work when someone asked me for a document and I opened the wrong file three times. There was one message from him the next morning: “Still thinking about last night. Coffee this weekend?”
I stared at it like it was a fragile thing. Then I did something I am not proud of. I didn’t reply.
It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. It was because I wanted to too much. That frightened me. After my breakup, I had promised myself I would become sensible, unhurtable, a woman with fresh sheets and clear boundaries. One kiss had made me feel seventeen again, and I resented him for it, though he had done nothing wrong.
On Sunday evening, I finally wrote back. I apologised and said coffee would be lovely if the offer still stood. The message delivered, but no reply came. I told myself that was fair. By Monday, I had accepted that I’d missed my chance. By Tuesday, I was composing imaginary speeches to him in the shower.
A week later, I saw him again in Hodges Figgis. Of all the places in Dublin, of all the hours in the day, there he was in the poetry section, holding a book like it had personally disappointed him. My first instinct was to hide behind a display of cookbooks. My second, better instinct was to grow up.
I walked over and said his name.
He looked surprised, then pleased, then guarded. That last expression hurt, because I knew I had put it there.
“I’m sorry,” I said, before I could lose my nerve. “I disappeared because I was scared. Not because I wasn’t interested.”
He closed the book. “I thought maybe the kiss had been
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
