I am in a barber’s shop. I tap on my phone. A few minutes to write something. Anything.

The door opens and mother and son walk in. She is miserable. Poker face. He is cheerful. About fourteen or fifteen.

I am more interested in writing a paragraph. The words are good, and I step into my creation.

When I look up, the boy is watching me, grinning. Poker face glares at nothing. I go back to my phone and write some more.

Five minutes pass. I look up and he is still looking at me. And I think, I am watching you, watching me.

I chat shit with the guy who cuts my hair. When he is finished, I make to leave.

The boy smiles and scrutinises me, but Poker Face scowls.

And just as I am about to walk out the door, cheeky grin crosses his legs, and now I am certain.

I want to say to his hideous mother that her son is gay. But if I do, she will probably cry.