Dermot MacMurrough always felt the oxygen in Dublin was too thick for his lungs. That morning, the rain had just stopped, leaving steam rising from the gray asphalt. But for Dermot, it's not just water vapor; it smelled a bit fishy, the smell of old hemoglobin seeping from the pores of the earth.
"You're daydreaming again, Dermot. The coffee will be as cold as a corpse if you don't touch it."
The voice came from across the table. Elias, the only friend who could stand Dermot's temper, was munching on his sandwich with maddening enthusiasm.
Dermot stared at the ceramic cup in his hand. He didn't look at the coffee. He saw the reflection of the dull purple Dublin sky on the surface of the black liquid. "Don't you feel it, Elias?"
"Feeling what?" Elias stopped chewing, ketchup dripping down the corner of his lips like a small cut.
"Floor," whispered Dermot. He placed his palms on the cafe's wooden table. "The vibrations. Not like a subway train. It's more... rhythmic. Like something is trying to catch its breath under this concrete."
Elias laughed, a sound that sounded rough and cracking to Dermot's sensitive ears. "It's just old pipes, bro. This city was built on rotten history. Water pipes, sewer lines, medieval remains. You've read too many occult books. Your Weltschmerz is starting to become a nervous illness."
Dermot didn't answer. He closed his eyes. Behind his dark eyelids, he could not see the empty black color. He saw a flash of dirty maroon and dead olive green. He felt the ground beneath his shoes not as a solid material, but as a tired mass.
"The world wasn't supposed to be like this," Dermot muttered to himself.
"All is well with the world," answered Elias as he stood up and straightened his jacket. "You're the only one out of sync with that. Come on, we have to get to the port. Your cargo ship came today, didn't it? You'll need some manual labor to get those strange thoughts out of your head."
Dermot stood, his head throbbing slightly. As he stepped out of the cafe, his feet landed in a puddle of rainwater. The water is not clear; there was a thin layer of oil that refracted the light into a rainbow that looked like rotting reptile scales.
Every step he took towards the harbor felt like he was walking on something alive, something sleeping very restlessly.