It began with a lie told in a queue outside Grogan’s, of all places, with rain tapping on the awning and both of us too tired to correct it. Conor and I had been friends since college, the kind who could sit in silence over chips on Dame Street and still call it a night well spent. That Friday, we were heading to his cousin’s engagement party in Stoneybatter. His mother had misunderstood something months before and thought I was his girlfriend. He never corrected her because she had been sick at the time, and because, as he said, “It made her smile.”
I should have said no. I had just come out of a careful, polite relationship that ended with both of us saying we wished each other well and neither of us meaning it. But Conor looked so embarrassed asking me that I laughed and said I’d do it for one weekend, once he bought me dinner and never used the phrase “my woman.” He promised. He broke that promise within two hours.
His family were warm in the way Dublin families can be warm, pulling you into stories before they know your surname. His aunt kissed both my cheeks. His uncle asked if I followed the Dubs. His mother held my hand for a second longer than expected and said, “He looks happier with you.” I felt the lie land between us like a coin dropped into a glass.
We performed it lightly at first. Conor put his hand on the small of my back when we crossed the room. I leaned into his shoulder when someone took a photo. We argued about whether to get the Luas or walk as if we had argued about it for years. Later, in a pub near Smithfield, his cousin raised a toast to love, and Conor squeezed my fingers under the table. I thought it was part of the act until he didn’t let go.
Saturday was worse, because the pretending started to feel too easy. We went for coffee near Phoenix Park before the family lunch, both of us hungover and quiet. He knew how I took my coffee. I knew he got anxious before seeing relatives because he felt they were all moving forward and he was still standing on the same square. We sat on a bench watching dogs drag their owners through wet leaves, and for a few minutes we weren’t pretending to be anything. That was the dangerous part.
At the lunch, his mother showed me baby photos from a biscuit tin. Conor groaned, but he didn’t stop her. There he was at seven, missing teeth, holding a plastic sword on Sandymount Strand. There he was at twelve, already looking like he was apologising for taking up space. I felt such tenderness then it frightened me. Not the dramatic kind you see in films, but the quiet kind that arrives wearing ordinary clothes.
That evening, after too much wine and too many questions about when we “knew,” we walked across the Ha’penny Bridge. The river was black and shining, and the city had that Sunday-night feeling even though it was Saturday, as if everyone was already regretting something. Conor stopped halfway and said, “We should tell them tomorrow.”
I said, “Tell them what?”
He smiled, but not fully. “That we’re not together.”
I nodded too quickly. “Of course.”
Then he said, “Unless you don’t want to.”
I remember the buses hissing along the quays, the cold on my face, the awful sweetness of being offered a door and not knowing whether it opened to
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
