I met her on a wet Thursday in Dublin, the kind of evening when the city seems to shine out of the cracks in the pavement. I had missed the bus after work and ducked into The Long Hall on South Great George’s Street, not because I wanted a drink, but because I wanted to stand somewhere warm and pretend I had chosen to be there. She was at the bar arguing gently with the barman about whether a lemon slice belonged in hot whiskey. She had a navy coat, wet hair pinned badly at the back, and the confidence of someone who could be wrong in a room and still make everyone like her.
She turned to me and asked, “You look like a man with an opinion.” I told her I was a man with a damp coat and very little else. She laughed as if I had said something much cleverer. That laugh did a strange thing to me. It loosened the day. I had been carrying a loneliness I hadn’t named yet, one that had crept in after a quiet breakup and stayed in the corners of my flat in Phibsborough. But in that moment, standing beside a stranger with rain on her eyelashes, I felt suddenly returned to myself.
Her first name was Niamh. That was all I got. She said she was from Mayo, living near Ringsend, working in a charity office that made her hopeful on Mondays and furious by Fridays. I told her about my job in a print shop near Capel Street, about my father’s habit of fixing things that were not broken, and about how I had once wanted to be a photographer before I became afraid of being poor. She listened in a way that felt almost physical. She did not check her phone. She did not wait for her turn to speak. When she asked questions, they landed exactly where I had been avoiding myself.
We left the pub after one drink because she said the best part of Dublin was walking through it when you had nowhere particular to be. We went down Grafton Street, past buskers and shoppers folding themselves into coats, and crossed toward St Stephen’s Green. The park was closed, so we leaned against the railings and watched the trees moving in the dark. She told me she had been engaged once, to a man who loved plans more than people. I told her I had loved a woman for four years and still managed to make her feel alone. Neither of us tried to tidy it up. We just stood there telling the truth because we had no shared history to ruin.
By the time we reached the Ha’penny Bridge, the rain had stopped and the Liffey looked black and patient beneath us. Niamh took a small disposable camera from her bag and said she carried it because phone photos were too easy to delete. She asked if she could take my picture. I said no at first, then yes, because she had a way of making surrender feel dignified. She took one photo of me looking awkward against the bridge lights, then handed me the camera and stood under a lamp with her hands in her pockets. I remember the collar of her coat turned up, the soft tiredness around her eyes, the wind pushing a strand of hair across her mouth. I pressed the button and heard the little click. It felt important for no reason I could explain.
At Connolly Station she checked the time and her face changed. Not sadly, exactly. More like someone waking from a dream and remembering a train. She said she had to go to Drogheda that night to see her sister, who was having a hard time after a baby. I offered to wait with her. We sat on a bench under the
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
