It was the summer of the heatwave when I decided I would break up a marriage. The whole country had an air of being on holiday. I might have met him in some Greek taverna, or a slightly-sleazy Spanish nightclub, instead of in a bar just off Grafton Street. It was a Tuesday night and the place was full.
I was supposed to be meeting my friend Dan for a post-work drink. The text alerting me to the work pal of his that would be joining us came through while I was en route, stepping around what seemed like half the population of Dublin sitting out in front of pubs with beers in hand to soak up every last drop of sunshine. We didn’t know then that it would last for weeks; we were all trained in the art of making the most of any hint of Mediterranean-style heat.
This is the first mention of Fintan that I remember. He was going up to the bar when I arrived. Two things immediately in his favour: he asked what I was having, and then left myself and Dan alone for a few minutes in case there was anything that needed to be discussed in private. I confirmed for Dan that I’d broken up with the boyfriend—he’d seen it all up on Facebook anyway—and we were still talking about it when Fintan returned with the drinks.
‘Sounds like you’re better off without him,’ he said decisively.
It was an obvious thing to say, but then again so much of Fintan was obvious. He was cheerful and good-natured and he and Dan disappeared into an intense discussion about football at one stage. He was not my usual type who would write poetry, or send borderline-suicidal messages at three in the morning. He was not unintelligent but he was not intellectual.
One drink turned into two turned into five, and then I was making suggestions of late-night bars and nightclubs.
‘Work tomorrow,’ Dan said.
‘Me too,’ I said. I could tell he was still tempted.
‘Ah no,’ Fintan said, putting an arm around each of us. ‘Come on. We’ll go out dancing another time.’
I pouted—it was that stage of the night. ‘Promise?’
His arm was warm and solid. ‘Promise.’