I met him on a wet Tuesday in Dublin, the kind of day when the buses hiss at the kerb and everyone looks personally betrayed by the sky. I was twenty-three, working weekends in a small café near Trinity, pretending I was only there until my “real life” began. He came in looking for shelter, with rain on his glasses and a book tucked under his coat like it was something alive.
He asked for tea, no milk, and sat by the window for two hours reading. When he left, he forgot his scarf. I ran after him as far as the corner, calling, “You forgot this,” and he turned around with the sort of smile that makes a person foolish. Not dramatic. Not film-star handsome. Just warm, surprised, grateful. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said. That was the first sentence he ever said to me, and I carried it around like a secret medal.
His name was Cian. He worked in a bookshop off Dawson Street and came into the café every Thursday after that. At first, I told myself I only noticed him because he was kind. Then because he remembered my name. Then because he would ask about my mother’s hip operation, or the poems I said I was trying to write, or whether I still hated cinnamon after the scone incident. Small things. Dangerous things.
We became friends in the ordinary Dublin way, through repeated accidental meetings that were not accidental at all. We went for pints in Temple Bar when his bookshop had a launch. We walked along the Liffey after closing, our shoulders sometimes brushing, my heart behaving like it had never been let out before. We sat in St Stephen’s Green on lunch breaks, eating sandwiches from paper bags, talking about everything except the one thing I wanted to say.
There were chances. More than I can count. Once, after his father died, he rang me at half eleven at night because he couldn’t sleep. I met him near the Ha’penny Bridge, and we walked without a plan until the city emptied around us. He cried quietly, wiping his face with the heel of his hand, embarrassed by his own grief. I wanted to take his hand. I wanted to say, “I love you, and I’ll sit in the dark with you as long as you need.” Instead, I bought him a coffee from a late shop and said, “You’re doing better than you think.”
Another time, at Christmas, we ended up in Kehoe’s with friends, all of us too warm and too loud. He leaned close because of the noise and said, “You’re the only person who really sees me, you know.” I laughed because I was afraid if I didn’t laugh, I’d tell the truth. I said, “That’s because you’re very obvious.” He smiled, and the moment passed. I watched it go like a bus I should have run for.
For seven years, I loved him in practical ways. I remembered his interviews. I sent him articles about authors he liked. I brought soup when he had the flu and pretended I was doing it because I was “in the area.” I clapped the loudest when he read a short story in a basement bar in Smithfield. When he got a job offer in Galway and didn’t know whether to take it, I told him he should. I said he deserved a bigger life, and I meant it, even though part of me hoped he would choose the smaller life that kept him near me.
<p
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
