Mr.19 Years Old

Saturday night was swell -- I saw Steve again. Who? Steve, remember – the 19-year-old half-German guy? There now, I can imagine a few heads nodding from those who know me well.

Ah, Steve. Here’s a man who grew up in Germany, lived in Bohol, transferred to Cagayan, studies Vet Med in Leyte, occasionally stops over in Cebu, and dreams of setting up a clinic in France.

Talk about my dating life and you bet I can’t not mention him. After all, didn’t he start the curse?

I met Steve about three years ago while he was just turning 19. Like his latest text message, it was unexpected.

As a favor to MD who was game enough to attend a children’s party with me held by one of the people I was covering for SS Weekend then, I reluctantly accompanied her on a date she wasn’t too crazy about right after. Turned out it was a good thing for the guy, too, brought along two friends with him – Steve and his brother Garik.

Like usual, we ended up drinking coffee. And then we talked and talked and the coffee never tasted better.

He was 5 years younger yet made more sense than most guys I know my age or even older.

He was a DJ. I remember the following day I closed the TCR pages with his voice blasting through my earphones. I almost fell off my swivel chair when I heard my name. Said he was dedicating a couple of songs to me. That’s how I came to know Usher. By the time Bic Runga’s Sway reached my ears, I could no longer feel my knees.

I flirted shamelessly after that. Ja, I do know how when the mood strikes me ;p Age difference be shot.

But things didn’t always work out the way I wanted to.

He visited the house while I was having a bad hair day.

He called me up when I least expected him to and ignored me the rest of the time.

Eventually, he set up the first date... and then canceled at the very last minute. Was I mad? Nah. Hair-raising mad? Ja!

And then five months later, he left Cebu. Just when I was beginning to forgive and really like him. The asshole.

After a while, I learned to laugh over that episode in my life. I got over him. He was just 19 after all! But then after he left, something weird happened which made it hard to forget him -- 19-year-old guys began popping out of nowhere. Really.

I went to Malapascua and who did I find flirting with me? A 19-year-old model who wiggles his feet while sleeping.

I went to Boracay and who’s the first cutie I met? A 19-year-old hotdog vendor.

You know, strange things like that I’ve begun to believe happen only to me.

Now, I can’t even travel someplace without Igat Almera’s stern warning ringing in my ears, “Igat, behave ha.” Meaning, no flirting with 19-year-olds and below. As if.

I introduce a guy’s name in conversation with friends and the first thing they ask is, “Wait ‘day, dili 19?”

Sigh. In the dating game, does age really matter? How young is young and how old is old?

I went out with a guy once I suspect was almost twice my age and I had the feeling it was kinda wrong too. People stared. Or was it just me? Double sigh.

I couldn’t understand my lab layp, so I just focused on my career. Enron was hot. America’s airlines were going down after 9/11. The Troubled Company Reporter’s pages were running high. We were busy.

Christmas went and summer came. Then Steve came back for a visit. He wanted to see me. Well, well, well!

I was tempted to brush him off, but I couldn’t bear to be unkind. Besides, I was curious to see what’s become of the guy who broke a date with me and left without a word. And yes, I was vindictive enough to want to get back at him.

So I told him yes.

No, I didn’t stand him up or break it at the last minute. That’s too predictable. I was girl enough to believe that the best way to really make a guy suffer was to turn my plain countenance into something cute, if not gorgeous. And I knew just how to do it. Let him eat his heart out!

It worked. “You look beautiful,” he said. But did he have to sound surprised? The jerk. Why, wasn’t I before? I just gave him a killer smile.

Fifteen minutes later though, after our first laugh over an unexpected joke, I began to warm up to him. Underneath it all, I realized he’s really a nice guy. I remembered why I liked him in the first place. I can’t say the old feelings came rushing back. But he’s really interesting. Smart. Different.

He’s the one who taught me that in some parts of the world, people drink beer like water.

With him, I can gush about European authors and he wouldn’t bat an eyelash. Cool.

He introduced me to alternative music.

He’s one person I know who’d debate against the merits of studying Rizal.

He doesn’t think I’m crazy when I suggest we walk from the village to ayala instead of taking a cab.

And isn’t it refreshing to meet someone who doesn’t always agree with what you say? (And to think I’m older than him!) What’s more, he makes you see why too.

When I boasted about my superlicious spaghetti, all he said was, "Nah, one of these days I'll cook for you. Mine's better."

Whenever he asks me out, I appreciate the way he’s already got a place in mind and not wait for me to make all the decisions. All I’ve got to do is say ‘fine’.

He’s not afraid at all to say, “Hey, I’m beginning to see you have a bad side. It's showing.” (And to think I covered it so well. hahaha)

He remembers my sister has a baby – a fact I told him over a year ago.

And most of all, he’s the only person I know who manages to talk about the Iraqi war, of courage and carpe diem for some minutes and then segue so smoothly to declaring he has feelings for me.

I remember it well, Steve. It was the night before your boat leaves for Bohol. We were at Kaona Grill, drinking San Mig Light by a table underneath a tree near midnight when you said those things. Then all of a sudden, the lights went out. And all I could think of at that moment was how lovely the full moon was that night.

I didn’t know what to say.

Ours was the only table left outside but still the waiter was kind enough to light us a candle instead of making us leave.

The light flickered. I glanced up and saw you waiting.

“You’re a year too late, Steve,” I finally said.

“I know. I just have to say it. I don’t want to leave without saying it.”

You added, “Maybe this just makes it complicated because… well, I know I can’t stay. And honestly I don’t know when I’ll be back. I wish I had more time.”

I tried to make things light by saying, “Come on, don’t worry about it. I think you’re just carried away by the moment. You’ll get over it, you’ll see.”

“Really, you think? Nah, this is real. I know how I feel.”

I fell silent because I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m not really expecting anything more. I know it would be unfair. But will you at least keep the door open for me?”

And I said, “Why not?”

Then you walked me home. During goodbye, you said, “I’ll keep in touch.”**


I didn’t really believe it but he did. The texts were sporadic and far between. Like me, he doesn’t like texting and talking over the phone. But once every few months or so, he’d check to see if I’m still alive – just when I least expected him to.

Then last Saturday, he stopped over Cebu for a few hours -- long enough to be able to invite me out for coffee. I was cleaning the house and was on my knees waxing our 50-year old wooden floor when my phone beeped. What timing! And so like him to come when I least expected him to.

It was nice finding it easy to slip back to being good friends with him again. He’s not as skinny as before (though he still is) and he still speaks English with that German accent. He still smokes Marlboro Reds-- eew. He’s still the same interesting person, this once 19-year-old guy.

We talked and talked and the cheap coffee never tasted better.

We didn’t bring up last time. Nor did we speak of tomorrows. I was glad.

With Steve, you never know. From him, I’ve learned there’s beauty in simply taking the moment as it comes.

Thank you, Steve, for the moments you make me feel special. I know when you think of Cebu, you also think of me.

That is the sweetest thing.