Sometimes you meet people who love life. Sometimes you find people who love words. -and- there are those who have such a love of both they spontaneously break into soliloquies verbose.
This then was Padraic.
We met at work. Padraic was the new Gemmologist. He had the very esteemed double degree that separates the sheep from the shorn. Padraic knew his stuff. He had to answer every question with a thousands words or more. He tried to fit in, he really did, but in an industry where speed is of the essence he really was a stand-out.
One night we went for appies and then back to his place for wine. He had the most amazing rental on the southern border of Chinatown. Padraic occupied the top floor of an ancient home. The ceilings were 12 feet high at their lowest which was a good thing as he had shelves of books everywhere, floor to ceiling. He lent me a book on Garbo (which I still have).
I had blue and pink hair and he was as straight as an arrow. For some reason it amused him to read me his long pedantic love poetry for his lost wife, and for an even odder reason it amused me to hear it. I used to think to myself: "No wonder she bloody left. The guy never shuts up."
Hey, I never said I was a nice person back then. I was a good person. Quite a different thing entirely.
I had heard that one of my co-workers from that time dropped dead at home suddenly. I thought it was Darren,(who used to dress up as Sherlock Holmes and take the bus to work).
It was just recently that I found out it was Padraic. To say it floored me is an understatement.
Now it is me sitting pedantically writing about lost loves and life.
I hope he looks down with a laugh and wonders when I will shut up.
I pulled down a book to read today and there was his signature.
Ah, Padraic. They were good times.