A Better Place to Sit

Finn spent the first evening of 2026 in a beautiful Dublin restaurant, looking at a table he had made and no longer owned in any meaningful sense. His former business partner had the company. Finn had a small settlement, a bad back and a talent everybody admired when they needed a favor. At thirty-eight, he could tell which expensive furniture would fail, which neglected piece was worth saving and which confident promise usually meant somebody wanted his labor before discussing his name. The waiter asked whether he wanted company. Finn said he was waiting, though nobody had agreed to come.

He woke in May 2016 sitting on the floor beneath a chair. Rose, thirty-four, an upholsterer borrowing space in the same workshop, was prodding his foot with a roll of fabric. "The chair has won again." Finn was twenty-eight. The room was familiar, the date impossible and the small kitchen still contained a kettle he remembered replacing ten years earlier. He looked at his younger hands and laughed until Rose stopped teasing. Then he saw his original sketches, still his, made for the venture he had never quite begun. He had not lost them yet. He had not lost anything except the excuse that tomorrow would be easier.

He remembered the June referendum in Britain, the result that would shake sterling and the buying opportunities he had failed to understand as a small Irish maker. He also remembered turning every early saving into the largest workshop he could almost afford, leaving nothing for ordinary mistakes. This time he would keep euro cash, buy only useful stock at observed prices after the vote and build original work around repair, refurbishment and practical custom pieces. A favorable exchange rate could help a purchase. It could not turn rotten wood into a sound table or a vague customer into a paid order.

Finn had EUR 6,000 savings and sold his own unused project motorbike for EUR 4,000. He rented a modest working space, hired transport when needed and kept part of the EUR 10,000 as cash rather than buying a glamorous van. Niamh, thirty, a cabinetmaker with her own clients, looked through his plans and told him which joints would disappoint him first. She wore blue, had sawdust on one sleeve and smiled when he accepted the criticism. After work she invited him for supper. Her hand settled over his on the table, and Finn felt more awake than the impossible calendar had managed to make him.

Mae, twenty-nine, organized weddings and other private events. She found him repairing a chair for somebody else's venue and asked whether he could make a small collection that looked good without requiring guests to sit nervously. He could. Mae listened to his proposal, then asked him to explain it without apologizing for being the person doing the work. She wore green that day, and her steady attention made him stop performing modesty. When the work discussion ended, she invited him for coffee. Finn said yes before he could turn an ordinary pleasure into something he would deserve only after another productive month.

Aoife, twenty-eight, was an architect who bought one of his prototypes for a small private project. She tested it, asked difficult questions and liked him more when he answered the ones he did not know honestly. At a social evening she took his arm, leaned close and said she wanted dinner with the maker rather than another presentation about the object. Finn went. Aoife wore black and had a quiet smile that made the restaurant seem unusually warm. They kissed outside, then stood talking long after either needed another reason to remain. Her idea of a good future was calm, rooted and quite clear.

Orla, thirty-one, sang and traveled for work. She met Finn at a gathering hosted by Mae, mocked his attempt to identify the maker of every chair and pulled him into a dance. Her perfume was faint, her laughter immediate. Afterward she invited him to walk rather than hide beside the furniture. Orla kissed him first and said she liked affection that could tell the truth about a departure. Finn enjoyed the evening, and several that followed, without promising to stop her traveling. He was learning how much pleasure a direct answer could contain before anybody tried to make it permanent.

The first private furnishing order brought EUR 9,000 revenue against EUR 5,400 complete costs, leaving EUR 3,600 before tax after delivery and full payment. Finn bought his mother lunch, repaired her troublesome cupboard and paid himself a modest amount from the result. The rest stayed available for work. Rose inspected the finished collection and said he finally looked like a man who expected to be paid before being praised. She brushed a thread from his collar, let her hand linger and asked him for dinner. Finn went, pleasantly startled by the discovery that a better future could contain invitations rather than only tasks.

On 24 June, he watched the result of the previous day's UK referendum arrive through the news. Leave had won, as he remembered. Sterling fell. Niamh found him very still beside the radio and asked whether he had expected it. Finn said he had prepared for the possibility. He did not claim the uncertainty was good for everyone. It was not. He waited for current quotations, bought a limited useful batch of British secondhand stock and tools after checking their condition, and left enough euro cash unspent to survive being wrong about something else. The memory was real. The responsibility remained his.

That night Mae invited him to eat after a long event setup. She wore an old coat over a lovely dress and was too tired to pretend she had not saved him the best remaining portion. Finn thanked her. She caught his hand and asked whether he intended to turn every kindness into a formal receipt. He laughed, kissed her cheek and stayed until the room was quiet. Walking home, he remembered the restaurant in his first life and the empty place opposite him. There was still time to choose who might want to sit there. He only needed to stop assuming that a chair would wait forever.