Old Man

(for W.)

He is too old.

They say he is too old.

In the city, he looks his age. All his 48 years trickle down the channels that time has carved out of the corners of his mouth, his eyes become sharp, wolf-like, frightening in their intensity. When he speaks, he can be too loud, his laughter, almost obscene. Women are intrigued by him, yet they keep their distance. Boys respect him, but only out of necessity. For them, he is the tired, old man they fear they'll grow up to be.

But in the mountains, he is ageless. Strutting about in his peacock malong, smoking borrowed cigarettes, he is the king of this cafe. A black dragon sleeps on his left shoulder, and the morning sun makes prisms on his bald head. He is warm, familiar, the guard he keeps up in the city, lurking somewhere else, but not here. Have some more lambanog, he beckons, guaranteed no hang-over, I promise, or your money back.

Today, he is serving us. When he leans over to collect my cup, his hand skims my arm, and for a moment I feel electric, alive. He is not looking at me, of course. I know he is in love with my friend. She is lovely, sitting across the table from us, picking at her eggs, lightly piercing the yolk with two prongs of her fork. Her long legs are draped over the rattan seat, she needs only to stretch them for him to come running. This is the way it will be: between song and satiety, between full and floundering.

Yet I am content to have all this unfold before me.

That is joy enough.