IRISH LOVESTORY - New Beginnings

 

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New Beginnings

Only a few days later, I had found a roof over my head, at least for the time being. I reached out to an old friend, someone who had known me back when Tomáš and I scraped by in a shelter crowded with twenty Polish laborers. Martin welcomed me immediately. That same day, Liam dropped me off from his van, pressing a little pocket money into my hand so I could survive until I regained my footing.

Martin’s flat was small—two rooms in Carlow—but warm enough, a bachelor’s dwelling modest yet inviting. I exhaled in relief: back in a city I knew well, in the company of someone who remembered me from long ago.

Martin was gentle, a plump little elf of a man, whose greatest joy lay in his beloved bahroán. Though he counted hundreds of acquaintances, he had lived alone for years; solitude had etched lines into him deep as rivers. At first, he cared for me beautifully—cooking hearty Irish stew, offering advice about Jack, standing beside me like the old friend he had always been. Yet as the days passed, I felt him inching closer, into spaces I longed to keep my own.

He would ask me to rub his back, and sometimes, in the quiet of night, slip beneath my blanket, needing only the nearness of another body. I found it unsettling. I grew cautious each time I crossed the hall to the little bathroom, a persistent shiver crawling up my spine, as though I were being watched.

I found work at the Foundry, a sprawling hotel with a nightclub where the music throbbed late into the night. My task was simple: clear away the glasses abandoned by the revelers. It was not the life I had imagined, only a temporary measure. Martin fretted over me endlessly, urging me to find something better, his concern gentle but insistent.

Then, one evening, Jack called. The number I had once scrawled for him had not been forgotten. My hands shook at the sound, fear and shame rising in equal measure. It felt as though I were speaking to him for the first time, arranging a first date with someone who had long ago stolen my heart. So much had passed, yet my voice trembled, my throat dry—I was a girl again, dizzy with schoolgirl love.

Martin encouraged me gently, slipping into the other room to give me privacy. He even offered his flat for our meeting, smiling like sunlight as he left for a session with Irish musicians. When he smiled, crinkles fanned out around his eyes, and his gaze glowed warm and steady. Were he not so intrusive, I might have cherished him for that kindness alone.

But joy had already taken root. I was to see Jack again. He arrived as promised, even on time—a rare thing.

Martin’s flat was modest, but enough for our first meeting. Jack looked as striking as ever. He sat beside me on the worn sofa, and together we picked up the thread we had dropped years ago. He was attentive, gallant. Soon, however, his restraint faltered. He leaned over me, kissing me with a fervor that made me laugh through tears, whispering that I was beautiful. I never fully believed him—but oh, how I wanted to.

His scent lingered, woven into me like memory itself. I had missed the solidity of his body, the warmth it offered. For years, he had been only an idea, a recollection, a yearning—and now, to touch him again was almost unbearable. Waves of emotion surged through me until I felt I might weep with happiness. It was home. And still, the evening ended chastely, just as I had promised Martin it would.

In time, I realized I could not stay with Martin. His hunger for touch pressed too insistently upon me. I confided in Jack, who insisted I leave. The thought of me being cornered by another man disturbed him deeply. I was grateful to Martin for his help, but his endless need for intimacy had crossed a line I could no longer tolerate.

So I moved again—this time into the home of Patricia, a woman Martin knew. Her flat, only a few streets away, seemed at first a sweet, modest refuge. She ran a massage salon, and I imagined a touch of grace would carry into her home.

But the flat lay hidden in a dark courtyard behind the salon. The freezer door fell off in my hands, the washing machine blew every fuse, and damp seeped from the walls, carrying the stench of rot into every corner. Within months, all my clothes smelled of mildew, though I barely noticed it anymore.

Jack came when he could, often twice a week, though usually only to spend the night on his way through town. I worked at a French children’s boutique in the shopping center—a short walk away. Sometimes Jack drove me to his parents’ house, welcomed warmly as always. That Christmas, I sat again at their family table.

It was then that a thought took root: perhaps Jack might live with me. I suggested we share a home, split the rent. More than anything, I longed to take the next step, to feel that what we had was tangible, real. To have something solid with him meant everything. At first, he resisted—freedom was precious to him—but in time, he relented.

We began searching. He took the lead, knowing the city better than I. Soon, he found a new development just outside town, within walking distance: a modest apartment complex. We were given a brand-new, ground-floor flat. I handed Patricia my notice and refused to pay her last month’s rent—my complaints had never been addressed. She stormed into my workplace to accuse me, but the boutique owner threw her out without hesitation.

And so, at last, I moved into our little nest with the man I loved. A dream I had carried for years had taken flesh. I longed to be by his side always: to cook for him, curl up watching television, to wrestle with life’s burdens together—as ordinary lovers do. I was finally where I belonged. Happiness was mine. I planned which pie to bake, which dinner to prepare. I loved my new role. Jack, too, seemed to revel in it—perhaps no one had ever cared for him in such a way before.