The Boy in Vienna

Before you get started, no, I am not turning into a pedophile. Or a thirty-something spinster with an overbearing mothering syndrome.

And no, the boy I took a fancy on wasn't this cute adorable Italian kid (who started out as a silent train co-passenger, but two hours later, was pulling my hair as if I were a head of brocolli). I just posted his pic because he's a charming thing.

The "boy" happened to be the twenty-year old son of my mother's Pinay friend who stays in Vienna.
He was tall, spoke sexy German, had dark curly locks on his crown. Had biceps the size of which were illegal for his age. Shy. And oh-my-fancy-pants, soooo young. Young-ER! Damn.

He called me Ate.

After that, nothing was the same anymore.