The man who licked a lighter.

I have a passion for meeting new people, it’s one of the few things I’ll never get tired of. Sometimes they’re just passersby and barely a word is exchanged, a nod, a smile, and you’re both on your way. Other times you could talk for hours and still feel like you’ve only scratched the surface.

Last night I met a man called Cian, and I don’t think I’ll ever forget him.

I was sat outside Monroes Tavern, writing to my sister, when he just appeared out of nowhere. He’d been chatting to some fella about motorbikes and the fella was leaving, so he looked around for somewhere to land. He asked the woman at the table next to me if he could sit with her, genuinely not trying to chat her up, he just wanted a seat, but she said no because her partner was coming back. So he turned to me.

“What are you at?” he asked.

So I told him. I was writing to my sister. He asked about her, so I told him the story. And he listened, properly listened, which is rarer than you’d think. Then he said: “I’ve been talking to loads of people tonight, but that’s the most interesting story I’ve heard. Can I get a pint and join you?”

I explained that some people were meeting me later, but until then, he was more than welcome. So he grabbed a pint and sat down.

And we talked for about an hour. Cian turned out to be genuinely lovely, the kind of person you feel lucky to have bumped into. He told me about his family. His parents are apparently chalk and cheese, his dad’s a farmer, his mother a psychologist or therapist of some kind. I couldn’t quite catch exactly what she does because every few minutes another car would roar past and my hearing would wave a little white flag. But they sounded like two genuinely nice people who raised a genuinely nice son. He talked about his sisters with such affection it made me smile.

He’s from Roscommon. He’s a roofer. He had work in Lahinch the next day and had come into town for tests at the Galway Clinic. While he told me his story, I found myself really feeling for him. His face was young, but well-travelled, like it had collected stories the way other people collect stamps. His hands told a different story: scarred from work, rough from graft. But when he shook my hand, his grip was soft. Kind. Like he wanted me to like him. He didn’t have to try hard, he was effortlessly likeable. His voice was warm and soothing, the kind of voice that makes you want to lean in and be part of whatever he’s telling you.

He was handsome, too. He’d clearly had a few drinks because at one point he told me I was “the butchest gay guy” he’d ever met, which is not a compliment I hear often. Either it was the drink talking or I’m genuinely the only gay man he’s ever had a conversation with. Either way, I’ll take it.

We talked about him, we talked about me. It was a lovely way to spend an hour.

And then came the moment I will never, ever forget.

He stood up, a mischievous glint in his eye, and announced: “Watch this,” he said,  “people love party tricks.”

He pulled out a cigarette lighter. One of those cheap ones with a paper warning label wrapped around it, you know the ones: “Warning: contains flammable gas. Keep away from children.”

He held it up.

“Cats have rough tongues,” he said. “So do I.”

And in one single, deliberate lick he licked the sticker clean off. Just like that. It was gone. The people around us were staring. I was staring. He stood there, grinning like a man who had just pulled off the greatest magic trick in the world.

And then he licked the sticker back on.

I have no idea how. I have no idea why. But I was genuinely impressed. Everyone around us was genuinely impressed. It was absurd and brilliant and utterly, perfectly him.

I love meeting new people. But some of them stay with you longer than others. Cian the roofer from Roscommon, who talks about his sisters with love in his voice, who has a face full of stories and hands full of scars but a handshake that says please like me, who can lick a sticker off a lighter and back on again like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

That’s a person worth remembering.