strangers

Browsing among the bookshelves in Easons of O'Connell Street.
A pulse in the universe. The crowd parted.
A momentary impression of elegance. Long dark hair. Sensuous lips. The deepest eyes.
There she was.
It was her.
The one I've been meeting accidentally around Dublin for the past five years. About once every six months. In a restaurant. Or cafe. Or in the street. Or in various bookshops. And now, here.
Just fleeting glimpses.
Then she's gone.
She is very striking. A phenomenon of nature really. I always account it a good day when I see her.
But I have never been under any illusions about talking to her.
Never going to happen.
Today in Easons she glanced up and our eyes met.
She held my gaze longer than was strictly comfortable and seemed to reach some sort of decision.
The next thing I knew she was coming towards me. All long hair, clattering heels, stylish dress, fearless eyes. A blur of feminine resolve.
I thought: "Uh oh."
Now she was directly in front of me.
"Hi," she said thrusting out her hand and favouring me with a devastating smile. "I hope you won't mind. I've seen you around the city for years. I almost feel I know you. My name is Nicola."
Well bold travellers of the internet, slap me bum and call me Steiner.
I didn't see that one coming.
I shook her hand. Her eyes contained plenty of encouragement. I felt weak at the knees. I am twenty years too old to feel weak at the knees.
"It's like a Woody Allen movie isn't it?" she said.
I agreed that it was.
Although I've yet to see Woody keel over like a sack of spuds in one of his movies which was what I was in danger of doing.
"You're always reading something intellectual when I see you," she offered.
I showed her what I was reading today.
It was a book on UFO's.
With some difficulty I resisted the urge to tell her I'd recently seen a UFO.
"What do you for a living?" she wondered.
Feeling like a traitor to the cause, I resisted the urge to tell her I was a poet.
"I'm a journalist," I said.
Her adorable eyes widened adorably.
"Wow," she said.
I only just resisted the urge to tell her that I was the worst journalist in the Republic of Ireland, and that editors around the country have pictures of me in their newsrooms, and that underneath those pictures they have written "Do Not In Any Circumstances Hire This Man."
No need for any of that self deprecating stuff. My face was doing all the self deprecating we needed by turning a deeper shade of beetroot with every passing second.
And so we talked.
It is a most intoxicating thing to meet a beautiful women who is also a nice person.
Intoxicated I was.
Later that evening I wandered up D'Olier Street towards Trinity College. I was walking on air.
The homeless man who sells The Big Issue outside Trinity was at his station.
Interestingly enough I've seen him there for five years.
I've never spoken to him or bought a magazine from him.
Years ago because of my insecurities I would hurry past him thinking he was a drug dealer or a street thug.
Of late I'd been simply too embarassed to talk to him, having passed him without a word for so long.
Tonight I approached him.
"Can I have one of those?" I asked.
He offered me a magazine.
"What are you charging me?" I asked.
He said three Euro.
I gave him three Euro and then whatever money I had left in my pocket.
This bold readers is what we may call the Nicola effect.
Driving home to Kilcullen through an early August evening I felt no lessening of its influence.