Young man, young man

By Catherine Portland

I was out one Friday night after work with my friends, and it got to about 11:00 so I decided to go home. It's sad how the working week can drag you down and ruin your Friday, but I wasn't upset about it. It was a nice warm evening and I was happy to stroll past pubs and bars and hear laughter, knowing that soon I'd be snug in my bed (and probably stick on another Sex in the City DVD).

I was approached by a man who wanted a light for a cigarette. I didn't have one, but he was cute and had a foreign accent and we sort of got talking. I really liked his boyish smile and easy manner and before I knew it, he was asking me if I wanted a drink.

"I really don't ever do this," he said.
"Nor do I," I replied, but I thought, why the hell not? - it's not like my love life's going anywhere at the moment, it can't hurt. So I accepted and we went to a bar.

He was very gentlemanly and we both drank wine and talked about so many different things: travelling, films, music. He had a good opinion on all subjects and as my sleepiness mingled with the wine, his eyes became dreamier and we ended up kissing. He wrote his number on the back of a napkin - how continental - and we said goodbye.

It was like being in a film, and the next morning I woke up and he'd already texted me. Although I'm generally not into that - a bit keen really, I was quite swept off my feet. I had little planned that day so I thought I might as well spend a day in a sunny park with a sexy Latino.

I felt like a million dollars when I met him. He's brought a rug and picnic food and was so charming. We spent the whole day together, and in the evening he took me to a comedy show. I felt like I was in a whirl wind - could this all be too good to be true?

When it got to Sunday and we were still together, I began to find myself trying to catch him out. I was sure he must have another woman somewhere or maybe three, but every time I got slightly suspicious, he looked at me with complete innocence.

It wasn't until three weeks later, when I was really falling for him, that I met his friends. Suddenly everything became clear. As they talked about the start of term, their skateboards and computer games, it became glaringly obvious that he was young. Too young. I looked at him and felt completely ashamed and horribly maternal. My beautiful man was little more than a mature child who would have been perfect if he'd been five years older.

I had to leave and I'm sure he understood why we never met again.