Once, in Cork

photo by Andrei Nekrassov

You mentioned you might be in Ireland late June, but I wasn’t betting on it. I was studying abroad in Cork. When you messaged you were in Cobh, I asked you to visit. It had been three years since we met in Prague, riding the tram from the dorms then walking to class under the fairytale façade of the Charles Bridge and St. Vitus Cathedral. 

You faced the opposite way at the Cork bus station. I glimpsed you through the glass. As I approached, you turned. We stood at a distance, staring, saying nothing before sharing a quick embrace. Pints and hours later, we wandered the streets. Low clouds burnt orange well past midnight that time of year. You wore turquoise galoshes and searched for puddles to splash. 

Back at my dorm, you laughed when I offered the couch. I think I’ll sleep in there with you, you said. I held open the door to my room and you leapt into the bed. I fell beside you. You said I smelled like booze and smokes. I asked if you liked that and you said you did. 

The rest of that night blurs, but the next morning I remember. I woke first. You rustled, naked, half covered by the white sheet. In the soft dawn glow, I rubbed light peach fuzz across the small of your back. Through the window, a persistent rain drenched the plants, everything glistening. I didn’t last long, but long enough to feel you tremble before I finished on the sheets. 

You were going to Galway that afternoon and had to catch the bus by nine. We walked to the station holding hands. There was a haze about town, but the sun peeked out and steamed the puddles. The bus was already at the station and I watched you climb the steps. You stopped at the top. That was fun, you said. I smiled, not knowing how to take that. I left the station and turned just in time to see the bus disappear down a side street. 

In the middle of town, men wearing deer skin hats drove a procession of convertibles over the wet asphalt. I ducked into a pub. It was barely past nine, but I ordered a Guinness anyway and waited for a tiny Irish woman to perform a proper pour. 

I found a table in the back and lit a smoke. I scanned the headlines of a days-old newspaper but can’t recall a single one. Out the window, I could see Clarke’s Bridge and the River. The thing about Ireland is it looks like you imagine it would. Which isn’t always true of most places. Most places I build up in my head so much I am disappointed when I arrive.

Hours passed as the light outside brightened. I thought of you, the possibilities. I didn’t know then it would be years until I saw you again. That that would only be once. That fate would find us living in the same city not speaking. That I would be the cause. I’ve never been good at letting moments lie. I prefer to push things too far, until the cloudy sheen of newness evaporates and it’s impossible to remember what came before.

The following week, I visited the small seaside town of Cobh. I noticed you were online and sent a message asking about Galway, but you didn’t respond. I did tourist things. Discovered Cobh was the last place the Titanic docked. Stood under the Cobh Cathedral watching the fishing boats, where a mist rolled in from the sea. The clouds linger over the ocean there, creating the illusion that the sun has always just come out.