The Other Streets of Love — Part I: Charlotte Quay
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I met Henry in a bar at the moment I was moving to the city centre of Dublin. Long short story: I was alone in the bar, pitying myself for the situation, then this English man came over, tipsy, and started to chat with me. I just wish he was gone, I was just into pitying myself while he complimented me and showed interest. He left. And came back. He left again. And came back again. Then I gave up and I was sitting at his table in the smoking area of (the gone) Berlin. We exchanged numbers before I had to leave to meet a friend.
The next day we texted each other and he was going on a trip to Croatia with his family. During this trip, he stopped receiving my messages. I thought Henry died on the trip, to be honest. Until he texted me back when he was in the UK and happily proved that all my searches for a dead British guy on the Croatian coast were pointless.
As soon as he was back in Dublin, we went on a date. That date lasted three nights. No joke. I met him for food one night, then I ended up meeting his housemates at his accommodation on the same evening, and then we slept. And repeat that for the two following nights. Suddenly, I was in a gathering with his housemates and other people talking about the deforestation of the Amazon forest. And sleeping with him, every night.
He moved to an apartment, where I had the pleasure to spend many nights having dinner, watching shows, and poking each other when one of us was about to sleep. I loved him easily. He is goofy, pleasant, wants to make everyone comfortable, the usual guy who is easy to be friends with and super passionate about what he likes. (That moment that you wait for the BUT.)
Two things were happening at the time: He and I had complex problems that truly affected the way we related to each other. I was in my second year as a student and I was already thinking of moving out of Ireland for the first time. I was homesick, as well. It was really hard to explain that to him in a way that a European person could understand the fact that we can’t see our friends and family easily. Not in my native language. So, I felt this lack of support, which was important at the time for me.
About the problems coming from his side: It’s not the why I am telling this story and I don’t think it’s fair to him. I am really proud of how he came around it and how he stuck with it. But I was affected by it then. There are things a 22-year-old can take and some of them are not supposed to be taken care of by a 22-year-old. I recognised it, we had a chat and it was time to say goodbye. It broke my heart to see that face in an Italian café listening to me saying it was not bearable anymore to carry with my life (even for a short period) like that.
