I used to tell people I met him by accident, but that makes it sound as if Dublin had nothing to do with it. The truth is, Dublin arranged the whole thing. The wet cobblestones, the fiddle music spilling out of pub doors, the strangers laughing too loudly under yellow lamps, the way Temple Bar can make you believe, after three drinks, that your life is about to turn into a song.
It was a Friday in November, the kind of evening when the rain doesn’t fall so much as hang in the air. I had gone out with two friends after work, promising myself I’d be home by eleven. I was twenty-nine, tired from a long week in a solicitors’ office near Capel Street, and freshly out of a relationship that had ended quietly, which somehow hurt more. No slammed doors, no betrayal, just two people admitting they had become furniture in each other’s lives.
We started in The Palace Bar, then drifted with the crowd towards Temple Bar because one of my friends had cousins visiting from Boston and wanted to show them “the real Dublin,” by which she meant music, overpriced pints, and people dancing where they shouldn’t. I remember standing outside a pub, holding a plastic cup of something I didn’t need, watching a busker sing The Auld Triangle. I felt lonely in that very specific way you can feel lonely in a crowd: surrounded by warmth but not part of it.
He was beside me before I noticed him. Tall, dark coat, hair damp from the rain, smiling like he had just heard a joke he wasn’t going to explain. He asked if I knew the words to the song. I said everyone in Dublin knew at least the sad parts. He laughed, and I remember liking his laugh before I liked anything else about him. It was gentle, not trying to impress anyone.
His name was Cian. He was from Drumcondra, worked as a paramedic, and had come out for one pint after a brutal shift. One pint had become two, then three, then standing in the rain talking to a stranger about prison songs and bad weather. I told him I was sworn off men for at least a year. He told me he was sworn off women until his next payday, which was Wednesday. It was a ridiculous conversation, and maybe because of that, it felt safe.
At some point my friends disappeared inside. His friends waved from a doorway. Neither of us moved. We walked towards the Ha’penny Bridge, not because we had anywhere to go, but because walking gave us an excuse to keep talking. He told me about carrying people through the worst moments of their lives and how it made ordinary happiness feel almost holy. I told him about my mother dying when I was twenty-four and how, ever since, I had been trying to become the sort of steady woman she would have trusted.
That was the first surprise of the night. Not the kiss. The honesty. We were drunk enough to be brave, but not drunk enough to forget. Under the lights near the bridge, with the Liffey moving black and shiny below us, he said, “You look like someone who’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” I should have been offended. Instead, I started crying.
He didn’t panic. He didn’t try to fix it. He just stood beside me while I wiped my face with the sleeve of my coat, embarrassed and laughing at myself. Then he said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re allowed one night where nothing drops.”
That was when I kissed him. Not delicately, not like in films. It was a clumsy, drunken kiss, my hand on the front of his rain-soaked coat, his laugh caught against my mouth.
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
